II

eyes was that of an adult⁠—which children never like⁠—rather sad with occasional flashes of scorn. Yet I could not resist looking at him, whether I liked him or not. But the minute he looked in my direction I looked away, somewhat frightened. If today I consider what he looked like as a schoolboy, I can say that he was in every respect different from the others, and bore the stamp of a striking personality and therefore attracted attention. But at the same time he did everything to prevent himself from being remarked⁠—he bore and conducted himself like a disguised prince who finds himself among peasant boys and makes every effort to appear like them.

He was behind me on the way home from school. When the others had run on, he overtook me and said: “Hello!” Even his manner of greeting, although he imitated our schoolboy tone of voice, was polite and like that of a grown-up person.

“Shall we go a little way together?” he questioned in a friendly way. I was flattered and nodded. Then I described to him where I lived.

“Oh, there?” he said laughingly. “I know the house already. There is a remarkable work of art over your door, which interested me at once.”

I did not guess immediately to what he was referring, and was astonished that he seemed to know our house better than I did. There was indeed a sort of crest which served as a keystone over the arch of the door, but in course of time it had become faint and had often been painted over. As far as I knew, it had nothing to do with us, or with our family.

“I don’t know anything about it,” I said timidly. “It’s a bird, or something like it; it must be very old. They say that the house at one time belonged to the abbey.”

“Very likely,” he nodded. “We’ll have another good look at it. Such things are often interesting. It is a hawk, I think.”