But I persisted that a large stone had fallen and crushed my fingers."[16] The other story is of the same tenour, though there is a new touch of sensibility in its concluding words.

"I was playing at ball at Plain Palais, with one of my comrades named Plince.

We began to quarrel over the game; we fought, and in the fight he dealt me on my bare head a stroke so well directed, that with a stronger arm it would have dashed my brains out.

I fell to the ground, and there never was agitation like that of this poor lad, as he saw the blood in my hair.

He thought he had killed me.