"Peter," he said to the working monk who had just finished his cleaning, "come here."
Peter obeyed. "Take these two delinquents in charge; they would handle each other with sly consideration, and avoid their punishment, your hand will let the rods fall more heavily;" and he handed him a bundle of birch rods, dipped in salt water.
Now the two lads began to howl lustily and to crawl about on their knees, in their fear. But Peter did not reach out his hand for the bundle of rods. The demon of pride had stirred his blood to insurrection; his countenance glowed; his eyes blazed; he tossed back the lock of hair from his brow, clenched his fists, and advanced one foot. He emboldened himself to speak, although he had not been questioned. "I am no hangman's slave, I never learned to beat men with a besom; lock up the culprits, and I will do their work as long as they are confined, but I do not like to whip boys."
"Petre!" said the Abbot in even tones, "Putasve quod adhuc sis dux equitum nobilium? Es servus servorum." (Do you think you are still at the head of noble knights? You are the slave of slaves.) And in order to let him feel how completely he was under the rod, he laid the bundle of sticks on the head of the defiant youth. Under this frightful burden, the uplifted head gradually sank and the lids closed over the blazing eyes. He unclenched his fists and crossed them on his breast. The handsome knight was changed again to the humble monk. He reached tremblingly for the bundle of rods, which he raised to his speechless lips:
"Parce, pater." (Spare me, father.)
But as he laid hold of the instrument of shame, whose work it is to disgrace that masterpiece of creation, man; to reduce to an animal him whom God had created in his own likeness, then once again his pride reasserted itself; he raised that noble hand, accustomed to grasp the sword hilt, whose greatest pleasure was to cut through with sharp steel helmet and armor; and which was now compelled with a jailer's scourge to belabor the bare skin of unmannerly clowns.
He was only a novice, and had not yet learned that there are seventy-seven devils in the body, and that the body receives as many blows as there are devils. He had learned that we must regard the nail-studded belt and the hooked lash as our benefactors, and that to scourge the body at night until the blood flowed was an equivalent for a day of prayer. But to beat howling students was still a horror to him. Soon he will become accustomed to that too. At this moment was heard in the hall the voice of the Prior. "Petre ad me tendas." ("Peter, come to me.") Peter sighed with lightened heart and handed back the bunch of rods to the Abbot. "The Prior calls me."
"He commands you; hasten to him."
Peter wanted to lay aside his wet cowl and put on his coarse sandals. "Go just as you are," said the Abbot, "either you will come back here barefooted, or you will go hence in another garb."
The Jesuit Brother dared not inquire concerning what he did not understand, he knew only to obey, so Peter went barefooted to the Prior.