Franek was beginning it all over again,—'and he said, and I said,'—but Magda covered his mouth with her hand, and she herself, turning to Bartek, exclaimed:—
'Do you hear? Do you hear? Go to the French war, then let a German beat your child like a dog!—Curse him! Go to the war, and let this Swabian kill your child!—You have your reward!... May....'
Here Magda, moved by her own eloquence, also began to cry to Franek's accompaniment. Bartek stared open-mouthed with astonishment, and could not bring out a single word, or comprehend in the least what had happened. How was this? And what of his victories?—He sat on in silence for some moments, then suddenly something leaped into his eyes, and the blood rushed to his face. With ignorant people astonishment, like terror, often turns to rage. Bartek sprang up suddenly, and jerked out through his clenched teeth:—
'I will talk to him!'
And he went out. It was not far to go; the school lay close to the church. Herr Boege was just standing in front of the verandah, surrounded by a herd of young pigs, to which he was throwing pieces of bread.
He was a tall man, about fifty years of age, still as vigorous as an oak. He was not particularly stout, but his face was very fat, and he had a pair of very protruding eyes which expressed courage and energy.
Bartek went up to him very quickly.
'German, why have you been beating my child? Was?' he asked.
Herr Boege took a few steps backwards, measured him with a glance without a shade of fear, and said phlegmatically:—