It was anything but a noble sight; the faces of the combatants were streaked with blood and sweat, and as the miserable gang of lower school-boys backed them on with eager shouts of--"Now Eric, now Eric," "Now Montagu, go it, sixth, form," etc., both of them fought under a sense of deep disgrace, increased by the recollections which they shared in common.
All this Vernon marked in a moment, and, filled with pain and vexation, his said in a voice which, though low, could be heard amid all the uproar, "Oh Eric, Eric, fighting with Montagu!" There was reproach and sorrow in the tone, which touched more than one boy there, for Vernon, spite of the recent change in him, could not but continue a favorite.
"Shut up there, you little donkey," shouted one or two, looking back at him for a moment.
But Eric heard the words, and knew that it was his brother's voice.

The thought rushed on him how degraded his whole position was, and how different it might have been.

He felt that he was utterly in the wrong, and Montagu altogether in the right; and from that moment his blows once more grew feeble and ill-directed.

When they again stopped to take rest, the general shout for Montagu showed that he was considered to have the best of it.
"I'm getting so tired of this," muttered Eric, during the pause.
"Why, you're fighting like a regular muff," said Graham; "you'll have to acknowledge yourself thrashed in a minute." "That I'll _never_ do," he said, once more firing up.
Just as the third round began, Duncan came striding in, for Owen, who had left the room, told him what was going on.

He had always been a leading fellow, and quite recently his influence had several times been exerted in the right direction, and he was very much looked up to by all the boys alike, good or bad.