Shrill laughter was the answer.
“Give me the flute—and take my soul!”
Again the laughter echoed. In wild anger Cœlestin fell upon Satan and tried to take the flute away, but Satan embraced him, and spread his black wings over him. Together they sank slowly to the earth. Cœlestin did not wake again.
In the morning the monks found the window broken, but of Cœlestin they found no trace. The Prior could not find the flute which the day before he had placed under the picture of Saint Anthony. While he was searching for the flute, he observed the picture critically, and for the first time he saw in the eyes of the green frog the red scorn of laughter, and he saw the white goiter swell. That day he removed the picture from his cell. For a time the monks talked of the affair, and then they forgot it, as everything else is forgotten. Again Brother Andrew and his gray companion went out into the mountains for food. They were received in the most friendly manner by the good mountain people, and Brother Andrew drank more wine than was good for him. How could he help it when the heat was so great! It was late when, heavily laden, he started home, where the monks awaited him impatiently. But this time both Bacchus and Morpheus took good Andrew in charge. The ass lost the way, and in the darkness let himself be led by his namesake.
But the next morning! The sharp air awoke him and dispelled the intoxication. Rubbing his eyes, he looked about. Eternal God, with whom had he slept! Near him lay a man, his face buried in the earth, and wearing the rotting habit of his Order. It was really now only the skeleton of a man, it had been so long the prey of wind and rain. At a little distance lay a flute! Andrew shrieked with terror. He began hastily to beat his companion, and drive him up the steep mountain-side.
Not once did he dare look back, and he made constantly the sign of the cross.
He told the Prior that he had stayed all night at a peasant’s house. Whether he ever told what really happened that night I do not know.