Wednesday, 26th.  
It was this very morning that Garrone let us know what he is like. When I entered the school a little late, because the mistress of the upper first had stopped me to inquire at what hour she could find me at home, the master had not yet arrived, and three or four boys were tormenting¹ poor Crossi, the one with the red hair, who has a dead arm, and whose mother sells vegetables. They were poking² him with rulers, hitting him in the face with chestnut³ shells, and were making him out to be a cripple and a monster, by mimicking[11] him, with his arm hanging from his neck. And he, alone on the end of the bench, and quite pale, began to be affected⁴ by it, gazing now at one and now at another with beseeching⁵ eyes, that they might leave him in peace. But the others mocked him worse than ever, and he began to tremble and to turn crimson⁶ with rage. All at once, Franti, the boy with the repulsive⁷ 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 hurled⁸ it at the other’s head with all his strength; but Franti dodged⁹, 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 constrained¹⁰ voice:—
 
“Who did it?”
 
No one replied.
 
The master cried out once more, raising his voice still louder, “Who is it?”
 
Then Garrone, moved to pity for poor Crossi, rose abruptly¹¹ and said, resolutely¹², “It was I.”
 
The master looked at him, looked at the stupefied scholars; then said in a tranquil¹³ voice, “It was not you.”
 
And, after a moment: “The culprit shall not be punished. Let him rise!”
 
Crossi rose and said, weeping, “They were striking me and insulting me, and I lost my head, and threw it.[12]”
 
“Sit down,” said the master. “Let those who provoked him rise.”
 
Four rose, and hung their heads.
 
“You,” said the master, “have insulted a companion who had given you no provocation¹⁴; you have scoffed¹⁵ at an unfortunate lad, you have struck a weak person who could not defend himself. You have committed one of the basest, the most shameful¹⁶ acts with which a human creature can stain himself. Cowards!”
 
Having said this, he came down among the benches, put his hand under Garrone’s chin, as the latter stood with drooping¹⁷ head, and having made him raise it, he looked him straight in the eye, and said to him, “You are a noble soul.”
 
Garrone profited by the occasion to murmur¹⁸ some words, I know not what, in the ear of the master; and he, turning towards the four culprits, said, abruptly, “I forgive you.”