His relations with his school-fellows were at first far from pleasant.  Whether they suspected favoritism; whether they resented that old and unsympathetic manner which sprang from his habits of association with his elders; or whether they rested their objections on the broader grounds of his being a stranger, I do not know, but they presently passed from cruel sneers to physical opposition.  It was then found that this gentle and reserved youth had retained certain objectionable, rude, direct, rustic qualities of fist and foot, and that, violating all rules and disdaining the pomp and circumstance of school-boy warfare, of which he knew nothing, he simply thrashed a few of his equals out of hand, with or without ceremony, as the occasion or the insult happened.  In this emergency one of the seniors was selected to teach this youthful savage his proper position.  A challenge was given, and accepted by Clarence with a feverish alacrity that surprised himself as much as his adversary.  This was a youth of eighteen, his superior in size and skill.

The first blow bathed Clarence’s face in his own blood.  But the sanguinary chrism, to the alarm of the spectators, effected an instantaneous and unhallowed change in the boy.  Instantly closing with his adversary, he sprang at his throat like an animal, and locking his arm around his neck began to strangle him.  Blind to the blows that rained upon him, he eventually bore his staggering enemy by sheer onset and surprise to the earth.  Amidst the general alarm, the strength of half a dozen hastily summoned teachers was necessary to unlock his hold.  Even then he struggled to renew the conflict.  But his adversary had disappeared, and from that day forward Clarence was never again molested.

Seated before Father Sobriente in the infirmary, with swollen and bandaged face, and eyes that still seemed to see everything in the murky light of his own blood, Clarence felt the soft weight of the father’s hand upon his knee.

“My son,” said the priest gently, “you are not of our religion, or I should claim as a right to ask a question of your own heart at this moment.  But as to a good friend, Claro, a good friend,” he continued, patting the boy’s knee, “you will tell me, old Father Sobriente, frankly and truthfully, as is your habit, one little thing.  Were you not afraid?”

“No,” said Clarence doggedly.  “I’ll lick him again to-morrow.”

“Softly, my son!  It was not of him I speak, but of something more terrible and awful.  Were you not afraid of—­of—­” he paused, and suddenly darting his clear eyes into the very depths of Clarence’s soul, added—­“of yourself?”

The boy started, shuddered, and burst into tears.

“So, so,” said the priest gently, “we have found our real enemy.  Good!  Now, by the grace of God, my little warrior, we shall fight him and conquer.”