--What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of
anything in your life except a trans, or Boland either.
--I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.
--Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out. In a moment
Stephen was a prisoner.
--Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about the heresy
in your essay.
--I'll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.
--Will you? said Stephen. You'd be afraid to open your lips.
--Afraid?
--Ay. Afraid of your life.
--Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen's legs with his
cane.
It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while
Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter.
Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the
knotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.
--Admit that Byron was no good.
--No.
--Admit.
--No.
--Admit.
--No. No.
At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His
tormentors set off towards Jones's Road, laughing and jeering at him,
while he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching his fists
madly and sobbing.
While he was still repeating the CONFITEOR amid the indulgent laughter
of his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were
still passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he
bore no malice now to those who had tormented him.
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