At last Gervasio came, anxious and flurried, for already he had heard some rumour of what had chanced. His keen eyes went from me to my mother and then back again to me.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“What has not happened?” wailed my mother. “Agostino is possessed.”
He knit his brows. “Possessed?” quoth he.
“Ay, possessed—possessed of devils. He has been violent. He has broken poor Rinolfo's leg.”
“Ah!” said Gervasio, and turned to me frowning with full tutorial sternness. “And what have you to say, Agostino?”
“Why, that I am sorry,” answered I, rebellious once more. “I had hoped to break his dirty neck.”
“You hear him!” cried my mother. “It is the end of the world, Gervasio. The boy is possessed, I say.”
“What was the cause of your quarrel?” quoth the friar, his manner still more stern.
“Quarrel?” quoth I, throwing back my head and snorting audibly. “I do not quarrel with Rinolfos. I chastise them when they are insolent or displease me. This one did both.”