Читать книгу Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs онлайн

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“Did he say aught to you, or do?”

“Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, ‘Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we meet here’ (he laid a particular emphasis on the word); ‘but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that very soon; for my father, you well know, is Prefect of the city’ (the mother slightly started); ‘and something is preparing which may nearly concern you. Before you leave us I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name, and it be not an empty word,[6] let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style and tables.[7] Wrestle with me, or try the cestus[8] against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.’”