Clarence with a feverish alacrity that surprised himself as much as his
adversary. This was a youth of eighteen, his superior in size and skill.

The first blow bathed Clarence's face in his own blood. But the
sanguinary chrism, to the alarm of the spectators, effected an
instantaneous and unhallowed change in the boy. Instantly closing with
his adversary, he sprang at his throat like an animal, and locking
his arm around his neck began to strangle him. Blind to the blows that
rained upon him, he eventually bore his staggering enemy by sheer onset
and surprise to the earth. Amidst the general alarm, the strength of
half a dozen hastily summoned teachers was necessary to unlock his hold.
Even then he struggled to renew the conflict. But his adversary
had disappeared, and from that day forward Clarence was never again
molested.

Seated before Father Sobriente in the infirmary, with swollen and
bandaged face, and eyes that still seemed to see everything in the murky
light of his own blood, Clarence felt the soft weight of the father's
hand upon his knee.

"My son," said the priest gently, "you are not of our religion, or I
should claim as a right to ask a question of your own heart at this
moment. But as to a good friend, Claro, a good friend," he continued,
patting the boy's knee, "you will tell me, old Father Sobriente,
frankly and truthfully, as is your habit, one little thing. Were you not
afraid?"

"No," said Clarence doggedly. "I'll lick him again to-morrow."

"Softly, my son! It was not of HIM I speak, but of something more