If the written examination had slain its thousands, the _viva voce_ slew its tens of thousands.

Even Richardson stumbled; and Heathcote, when his turn came, gave himself up for lost.

The Doctor's impassive face betrayed no emotion, and gave no token, either for joy, or hope, or despair.

He merely said "That will do" after each victim had performed; and even when Coote, after a mighty effort, rendered "O tempora! O mores!" as "Oh, the tempers of the Moors," he quietly said, "Thank you; now the next boy." At last it was all over, and they found themselves standing once more in the great quadrangle, not very sure what had happened to them, but feeling as if they had just undergone a surgical operation not unlike that of flaying alive.
However, once outside the terrible portal of Templeton, their hearts gradually thawed within them.

The confectioner's shop, now crowded with "gods," held them in awe for a season, and as long as the road was specked with mortar-boards they held their peace, and meditated on their shirt-studs.