that five boys, whom he, no doubt, liked, had without any reason conspired to hate and persecute him.
I positively am not able to explain the cruelty of my act. How is it I did not go up to him, did not defend, or console him? What had become of the sentiment of compassion which used to make me sob at the sight of a young jackdaw thrown out of its nest, or of a pup that was to be thrown over the fence, or a chicken that the cook-boy took out to kill for the soup?
Is it possible this beautiful sentiment was choked in me through my love for Serézha, and my desire to appear before him just such a brave fellow as he was? This love and desire to appear brave were no enviable qualities, for they produced the only dark spots on the pages of my childhood memories.
