The window was open now. A big hornet, as large as a pigeon’s egg, flew in; buzzing like a bass string, it flew at once to the nest. And then it was still.
The old dame left the attic, and the pilot got between the sheets.
When he came downstairs into the parlour on the following morning, the old dame was not there. A black cat sat on the only chair and purred; cats have been condemned to purr, because they are such lazy beasts, and they must do something.
“Get up, pussy,” said the pilot, “and let me sit down.”
And he took the cat and put it on the hearth. But it was no ordinary cat, for immediately sparks began to fly from its fur, and the chips caught file.
“If you can light a fire, you can make me some coffee,” said the pilot.
But the cat is so constituted that it never wants to do what it is told, and so it began at once to swear and spit until the fire was out.
In the meantime the pilot had heard somebody leaning a spade against the wall of the cottage. He looked out of the window and saw the old dame standing in a pit which she had dug in the garden.
“I see you are digging a grave for me, old woman,” he said.
The old dame came in. When she saw Victor safe and sound, she was beside herself with amazement; she confessed that up to now nobody had ever left the attic alive, and that therefore she had dug his grave in anticipation.