'It pains me to give you such terrible intelligence,' he muttered; 'but it is my duty not to conceal it an hour. You are quite—penniless. It is very sad.'
The boy smiled slightly; it was not a smile for so young a face.
'He has given me learning; he need not have done that,' he said carelessly. The words sounded grateful, but it was not gratitude that glanced from his eyes.
'I believe I am a serf in Russia?' he added, after a short silence.
'I do not know at all,' muttered the Principal, who felt ill at ease and ashamed of himself for having taken for eight years the gold of Prince Paul.
'I cannot tell—lawyers would tell you—I am not sure at all; indeed, I know nothing of your history; but you are young and friendless. You are a brilliant scholar, but you are not fit for work. What will you do, my poor lad?'
The boy did not respond to the kindness that was in the tone, and he resented the pity there was in it.
'That will be my affair alone,' he said, still carelessly and very haughtily.
'All is paid up to the New Year,' said his master, feeling restless and dissatisfied. 'There is no haste—I would not turn you from my roof. You are a brilliant classic—you might be a teacher here, perhaps?'
The youth smiled; then he said coldly: