Pan Podliásski was not alone. As he had to send to several very distinguished neighbours invitations for the next day's banquet, and as, like most of his peers in those days, he could not read or write, and considered it humiliating to do anything for himself, he had sent for his chaplain, and commissioned him to write the invitations. The chaplain had finished writing the letters, and it only remained to stamp upon them, instead of a signature, the crest of the house of Podliásski. The magnate took off his signet-ring, which he wore hung round his neck by a gold chain, and handed it to the chaplain to be pressed upon the wax. At that moment there appeared in the open window, from which the magnate and his chaplain were divided by a large table, an ugly little cock.
'Pan, give back the grindstone!' he cried.
Reddening with anger, the magnate raised his eyes to the insolent fowl, and seizing a heavy silver candlestick, flung it violently at him. All happened so quickly, that before Scarlet-Comb had time to understand anything, his wings had carried him from the window and his quick little legs from the garden.
When he came to his senses, Scarlet-Comb was quite ashamed. 'Can it be that I was frightened?... it is impossible!' he thought. But the fact was plain; he had lost his head and run away from the landlord.
'Well, and what of that?' said the cock, consoling himself; 'the important thing is not to stand like a log while things are thrown at you that may smash your head, but to get justice done!'
And Scarlet-Comb once more made his way to the castle.
Pan Podliásski was standing on the front terrace among his retainers and domestics, giving orders for to-morrow's banquet, when he suddenly heard the already familiar words:
'Pan, give back the grindstone!'
Scarlet-Comb was standing perched upon the nearest post, to which several horses were tied.