I had sat at his feet when they strayed unsteadily toward the great past, many a time. And I needed no second invitation to enter upon the campaign of the Hundred Days. A sudden transformation came over that dusty class-room; for veterans sat in the Board of Censors. In five minutes I had them sitting up, eagerly scanning the camps of the French and the Allied Armies as I drew them. In ten they were on their feet, striding from Ligny to Quatre Bras, to the Wavre turnpike, objecting, applauding, disputing with me and with one another as I led them from field to field of slaughter and finally rounded them up at Waterloo, brought Blucher to the relief of Wellington in the nick of time, and charged the Old Guard with a yell of “Surrender!” only to be met with the immortal reply: “The Old Guard dies, but never surrenders.” We sat down, a hot, excited band. There was a quiet gleam in Herr Trugaard’s eye as he pronounced the unanimous judgment of the Board: “ug+,” that is, A1 and to spare. It was the only “ug” I earned in my school days. It ought to have given the pedagogues food for thought, and perhaps it did. The bell that once called the monks to prayers summoned us to school at a quarter to eight, and in the long winter we sang our morning hymn with the dawn struggling through the windows. When we trooped home again with knapsacks strapped on our backs, it was night once more. From eight to five was our day, with two hours for noon, the rule in all the Old Town’s affairs. The bell regulated our lives as it had done since hour-glasses marked the time. It rings yet at the old hours, though the school-day is entirely changed, and Venus who rang it has long been gathered to her fathers. But when the Great Examen drew near, it was too slow for our guilty consciences, and the night-watchman was bribed to wake us up. So that he should not rouse the whole house, a string was hung out of the window, the other end of which was tied securely to the sleeper’s toe or ankle. The watchman’s order was to pull it till the boy responded, and he did. Perhaps he took the chance to pay off old scores. He pulled and pulled with might and main, until a red and swollen foot shot up to the window and behind it an angry face yelling to let go. The boy was awake and up, and the watchman clattered on his way, chanting his morning verse: Ho! Watchman, our clock it has struck four! Eternal God, all honor In Heaven’s choir to Thee, Thou who art watchman ever For us on earth that be. Now ended is our watch, For a good night Give God the thanks And mind ye well the time. Before his song died away among the old houses, we were hard at work cramming for examination.