Boleslav maintained his defiant attitude. But, much as he struggled against it, he felt the old, long-forgotten sentiment of respect for the schoolmaster awaking in him once more.
"My son," went on the old man, "a word from me, and the rabble that waits for you on the other side of that hedge would lynch you, but, as I said before, for the sake of the cap you wear, I will be merciful. If you like, I can prove that what I said just now is no lie."
He went to a cupboard, where stood a long line of ragged folios, containing church and parish documents, took out a volume, and, opening it, pointed to a page dated 1807.
"Here, my son, read this."
And Boleslav read--
"On March 5th, died Hans Eberhard von Schranden. Ex memoria hominum exstinguatur."
Beneath were three crosses.
"That is a forgery!" exclaimed Boleslav.
"Yes, my son," the old man answered solemnly, "that is a palpable, shameless forgery; a stain on my office; and if you choose to report it to the magistrates, I shall be suspended and end my days in prison. Do exactly as you think fit. My fate lies in your hands."
A shudder of mingled horror and reverence passed through Boleslav. He had himself experienced too often the wild élan and reckless delight of making sacrifices for the love of his country, not to understand what impulse had driven the old clergyman to this insane confession.