Autumn had come.

The yellow leaves were fluttering about the school play-ground, the starlings were gathering in flocks on the church roof to take their departure, and Ulrich would fain have gone with them, no matter where.

He could not feel at home in the monastery and among his companions.

Always first in Richtberg, he was rarely so here, most seldom of all in school, for his father had forbidden the doctor to teach him Latin, so in that study he was last of all.
Often, when every one was asleep, the poor lad sat studying by the ever-burning lamp in the lobby, but in vain.

He could not come up with the others, and the unpleasant feeling of remaining behind, in spite of the most honest effort, spoiled his life and made him irritable.
His comrades did not spare him, and when they called him "horse-boy," because he was often obliged to help Pater Benedictus in bringing refractory horses to reason, he flew into a rage and used his superior strength.
He stood on the worst terms of all with black-haired Xaver, to whom he owed the nickname.
This boy's father was the chief magistrate of the little city, and was allowed to take his son home with him at Michaelmas.
When the black-haired lad returned, he had many things to tell, gathered from half-understood rumor, about Ulrich's parents.