By that time they were separating at the door to Bergman’s classroom.  On entering his own class, Keith found it in a state of unexampled though subdued excitement.  The boys were gathered in groups which constantly shifted membership.  Every one spoke in a whisper.  Reports and rumours of the most fantastic kind passed from group to group, giving rise to fierce discussions.  Six boys had been drowned instead of three, some one asserted.  In another minute they heard that no one had been lost.  Most credence was given to a circumstantial report of the miraculous recovery of Dahlin after he had been fully fifteen minutes under water.  His big sealskin cap, they said, had become stuck over his face as he went under, so that the water could not choke him.

Keith was among the most excited for a while, running eagerly from group to group and telling what he had heard from Bergman, who evidently had the very latest news.  Soon, however, his mood changed, and he retired quickly to his own seat.  There he sat by himself, his elbows on his knees and his face resting in his hands.  A stupor had descended on his mind.  The whole thing seemed so incredible.  He could not grasp it.  Those boys, who had been right among them only a few hours ago, would never appear again.  There would be a funeral, and then they would never be heard of again.  Tears broke into his eyes.  He choked with a vague sense of pity.  Samson, he knew, was the only son of a poor widow.  Hill’s mother was very sick, some one had said.  And Dahlin....

Keith instinctively raised his head to look at the place which Dahlin had occupied that very morning.  What did it mean ...?

At that moment the Rector entered, long overdue to give them an hour in Latin—­an hour of which a goodly part already was gone.  The boys dropped into their seats.  A murmur of expectation passed through the class.  Every eye was on the Rector’s face which seemed to twitch in a peculiar fashion.

“The school has suffered a terrible loss,” he said at last, his voice sounding very hoarse.  “There is only one thing we can do—­work!  Will primus please begin translating from the top of the twenty-second page, where we left off yesterday.”

The boys stared at him, but no one dared to speak.  They knew there was no escape, and they tried to fix their attention on the books.  Keith saw before him a blurred page full of dancing letters. Primus stumbled and blundered.  He was followed by secundus and tertius.  Keith had recovered a little by that time, and he knew they were making mistakes that ordinarily would have called forth a storm of reproof from the Rector.  Now he paid no attention, but merely repeated: 

“Go on—­go on!”

At last the lesson came to an end, and then they were dismissed for the day.

On his way home Keith’s thoughts ran in a futile circle around the day’s event.  If they had never left the rink ... if they had been saved ... if the story about Dahlin could have been true....