“Dear little master, do explain this thing to me! Why doesn’t it burn up?”
To my great disappointment, the three captives died after a few days’ imprisonment, not, however, until they had laid a number of eggs—about the size of robins’ eggs—which I packed away most carefully in my boxes of specimens.
I may say, right here, that, upon my return home, I subjected these eggs to a gentle warmth and was charmed to see emerge from each one of them a larva about the size of a pipe-stem; but, to my delight—and to Bulger’s absolute terror—this pipe-stem affair had, inside twenty-four hours, become as large round as a Frankfort sausage.
In due time, they passed into the chrysalis state. But this apparent death seemed to become a real one.
Weeks went by and there were no signs of a metamorphosis.
I was cruelly disappointed.
More important matters, however, arose to occupy my thoughts. The sleeping fire-flies of the Orient were quite forgotten, when, one evening, the women servants of the manor house, with blanched faces and piercing shrieks came literally tumbling headlong down the main stairway.
Fortunately I was sitting on the first terrace of the park. With a bound I gained the hall-way, and snatching down a brace of fire-arms from the wall, throw myself in front of the wildly shrieking troop of women, calling out in stentorian tones, for silence.
“Has murder been committed?” I cried, “Is there revolt among the tenantry? Has blood been shed?”
“No! no! little baron!” they exclaimed, with wild eyes and clasped hands, “but the castle is on fire! Your rooms are in flames! Your treasures will be consumed! Quick! little baron; save them! save us! save the gracious lady and venerable master!”