The giant turned over, and snored louder than ever for an hour or two longer. Then he stretched his limbs, half opened one eye, and cried out: "Do you hear me? Is it almost ready?"
"It is half done," answered the second drop of blood on the log.
The giant turned over, and slept an hour longer. Then he yawned, stretched his great limbs, and cried out, impatiently:
"Isn't it ready yet?"
"It is ready now," answered the third drop of blood on the log.
The giant sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked around to see who had spoken; but it was in vain to look; he saw nobody.
"Finette," howled he, "why isn't the table set?"
There was no answer. The giant, furious, sprang out of bed, seized a ladle, which looked like a caldron with a pitchfork for a handle, and plunged it into the pot to taste the soup.
"Finette!" howled he, "you haven't salted it. What sort of soup is this? I see neither meat nor vegetables."
No; but, in return, he saw his carpet, which had not quite all boiled to pieces. At this sight he fell into such a fit of rage that he could not keep his feet.