THE SWARM OF BEES WITHIN BEGAN TO BUZZ ABOUT IN GREAT COMMOTION
The dame could not refuse to obey, so she brought the good things and set them on the table, but if looks could have killed anybody the drummer would have been a dead man that day. Little heed he paid to her evil glances, however, but applied himself to the food with a good appetite. Before very long, between the two of them, there was nothing left of the chicken but the bones, and of the gammon but the scrag-end.
BEATING ANOTHER TATTOO UPON THE DRUM
“Faith,” said the peasant, unbuttoning his waistcoat, “that was a better meal than I expected to get this night. Has your oracle any more agreeable surprises for us, good sir. I pray you, make him speak again.”
“With all the will in the world,” answered the drummer, “but this will be the last occasion, for he only speaks three times a day.” Taking up his sticks, he played the war-march of Napoleon on the drum, and the bees accompanied him as before with their loud humming. The peasant leaned forward eagerly to listen, while his wife stood by trembling with fear.
“Ah,” said the drummer at last, looking at them both with a grave face. “This time my oracle tells me of a very serious matter. He says that in the big chest over there a big black demon is hidden!”
“What! What!” cried the peasant, jumping up from his chair as though he had been stung. “A demon, did you say?”