“Come hither, sirrah, or I'll flay you alive!”
“Wait a bit!” answered Amyas.
The old gentleman jumped up, ferula in hand, and darted across the school, and saw himself upon the fatal slate.
“Proh flagitium! what have we here, villain?” and clutching at his victim, he raised the cane. Whereupon, with a serene and cheerful countenance, up rose the mighty form of Amyas Leigh, a head and shoulders above his tormentor, and that slate descended on the bald coxcomb of Sir Vindex Brimblecombe, with so shrewd a blow that slate and pate cracked at the same instant, and the poor pedagogue dropped to the floor, and lay for dead.
After which Amyas arose, and walked out of the school, and so quietly home; and having taken counsel with himself, went to his mother, and said, “Please, mother, I've broken schoolmaster's head.”
“Broken his head, thou wicked boy!” shrieked the poor widow; “what didst do that for?”
“I can't tell,” said Amyas, penitently; “I couldn't help it. It looked so smooth, and bald, and round, and—you know?”
“I know? Oh, wicked boy! thou hast given place to the devil; and now, perhaps, thou hast killed him.”
“Killed the devil?” asked Amyas, hopefully but doubtfully.
“No, killed the schoolmaster, sirrah! Is he dead?”