But there were so many of them—and I wanted a special hero all to myself. Where should I find him?
De Ruyter was a hero, killed by the enemy’s shot—but I had nowhere read that he had many wounds.
Bayard!—but I knew so little of him—and besides, he was not a Dutchman.
Cæsar—Napoleon—Blücher!—but how about the wounds?
Besides, every one knew that these were heroes; and I wanted one for myself—for my own special worship—not one of the universally famous ones.
My search, however, was not to be fruitless long. I found my hero in the following way.
There were to be drains laid down round the old church in our city; and the ground being dug up for that purpose, a number of skulls and bones were found in the black earth.
All the boys of the school went to look as soon as they could get away, and it may be supposed that I did not remain behind. We were all inspired with a frenzied enthusiasm for relics of antiquity. We grubbed about in the earth of the opened graves, to find coins, pots, or even potsherds if we could get nothing else. We envied the town workmen, who were allowed to keep on digging and finding all day long; and scarcely had it struck twelve when we flew to the Kerkplein, to see what these greedy persons had left us, and to discover anything that might have escaped their search.
But we found nothing—neither did the diggers. Most of the boys, therefore, gave up the search—I, alone, did not. I was seeking a dead, unknown hero,—while they were looking only for coins and nicknacks. I knew for certain that I should find something, when there were not so many eyes on the watch, and therefore I remained away from school one morning in order to go to the old churchyard.
For a long time nothing at all had been found—not even bones or mouldering boards; so that all the other boys too—those who did not belong to our school—had grown tired of coming.