Bluegrass.
It is the martial bird of morn, brave chanticleer—the vocal lighthouse of the dawn. Six times has the rooster crowed. [Rooster again crows.] And yet again he crows,—seven times, mysterious number! With crimson comb and whetted spurs, he sniffs this duel from his lofty perch in the heavenly balcony.
Whetstone.
How says the time?
Bluegrass.
It lacks but little of the hour. We’ll prove no laggards on the field of honor. Come on. Make haste! Away, away, or we’ll be late to join the fray! We’ll get our lanterns on the way. [Rooster crows.]
[Exeunt.
Scene II.—A clearing in a wood. Scythe, with lantern, arranging surgical instruments.
Enter, running, Fopdoodle, attended by Tom, his valet and second, carrying lantern and dictionary.
Fopdoodle.