"Stand up, Minas."
As Paul stood up with the usual weary shuffle, the savage dropped a book, as though it had fallen from Paul's knees.
"You've ignored my warnings. Now explain why you've refused to repeat the drill."
Despair and nausea were pulling at the vitals of the rebel. Once more the smouldering embers broke into flame. He felt himself on some pedestal surveying a mob which was taunting him with his inability to get down. Couldn't get down, eh! He'd show them that he was "King of the Castle" and they were the "dirty rascals!" His eyes narrowed, he leaned forward, and whipped out the words with a vicious little flourish:
"Parce que c'est pire qu'idiot—ces chansons que vous nous faites chanter. J'en ai plein le dos!"
For a moment he thrilled at the showing off, then his spirits sank to despondent depths. How he longed for the safe kitchen, the freedom and wisdom and comprehension of the empty house where he and Aunt Verona had enjoyed a communion more precious than he had realized at the time, more wonderful than anybody would ever be able to understand. He felt the friendly warmth of that historic little stove, smelt the friendly odour of fresh-baked scones, the evening odour of kerosene, heard the clatter of logs which Mr. Silva dropped from his arms to the floor of the porch, the sound of a protective voice which called out "Paul, Paul, go back two bars!"
He was too sick to enjoy the dramatic effect his outpour had created, too apathetic to fear the inevitable punishment. He was dimly conscious that, for once, there was a spirit of deference in the regard of his fellows; but he was also aware that the teacher was getting ready to say something "teacherish." He waited with cynical patience.
