They were poking him with rulers, hitting him in the face with chestnut shells, and making him out to be a cripple and a monster, by mimicking him, with his arm hanging in the sling. And he, alone on the end of the bench, and quite pale, was gazing now at one and now at another with beseeching eyes, that they might leave him in peace. But the others mocked him worse than ever, and he began to tremble and to turn red with rage. All at once, Franti, the boy with the bad face, sprang upon a bench, and pretending that he was carrying a basket on each arm, he aped the mother of Crossi, when she used to come to wait for her son at the door; for she is ill now. Many began to laugh loudly. Then Crossi lost his head, and seizing an inkstand, he hurled it at the other's head with all his strength; but Franti dodged, and the inkstand struck the master, who entered at the moment, full in the breast.
All flew to their places, and became silent with terror.
The master, quite pale, went to his table, and said in a stern voice:—
“Who did it?”
No one replied.
The master raised his voice, and said again, “Who was it?”
Then Garrone, moved to pity for poor Crossi, rose abruptly and said resolutely, “It was I.”
The master looked at him, and at the stupefied scholars; then said in a quiet voice, “It was not you.”
And, after a moment: “The guilty one shall not be punished. Let him rise!”
Crossi rose and said, weeping, “They were striking
