But this was certain: Stephen left his room a good deal more crestfallen than he entered it. He had hoped to win Mr Rastle’s sympathy and admiration by an account of his grievances, and, instead of that, he was sent off in disgrace, with an imposition for being rude, and feeling anything but a hero.
Even the applause of his friends failed to console him quite. Besides, his head ached badly, and the bruise on his cheek, which he had scarcely felt among his other wounds, now began to swell and grow painful. Altogether, he was in the wars.
He was groaning over his imposition late that evening in the class-room, feeling in dreadful dumps, and wishing he had never come to Saint Dominic’s, when a hand laid on his shoulder made him start. He looked up and saw Mr Rastle.
“Greenfield,” said the master, kindly, “how much of your imposition have you done?”
“Seventy lines, sir.”
“Hum! That will do this time. You had better get to bed.”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Stephen, moved far more by Mr Rastle’s kind tone than by his letting him off thirty lines of the Caesar, “I’m so sorry I was rude to you.”
“Well, I was sorry, too; so we’ll say no more about that. Why, what a crack you must have got on your cheek!”
“Yes, sir; that was the ruler did that.”
“The ruler! Then it wasn’t a fair fight? Now don’t begin telling me all about it. I dare say you were very heroic, and stood up against terrible odds. But you’ve a very black eye and a very sore cheek now, so you had better get to bed as fast as you can.”