"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."

He halted before me, erect and very stern--indeed almost threatening. And
I began to grow afraid; for, after all, I had a kindness for Gervasio, and
I would not willingly engage in a quarrel with him. Yet here I was
determined to carry through this thing as I had begun it.

It was my mother who saved the situation.

"Alas!" she moaned, "there is wicked blood in him. He has the abominable
pride that was the ruin and downfall of his father."

Now that was not the way to make an ally of Fra Gervasio. It did the very
opposite. It set him instantly on my side, in antagonism to the abuser of
my father's memory, a memory which he, poor man, still secretly revered.

The sternness fell away from him. He looked at her and sighed. Then, with
bowed head, and hands clasped behind him, he moved away from me a little.