The boy aimed at the bird with his magic gun, and it fell into a thorn-bush.
"There, rogue," said he to the other, "you may have it if you fetch it."
"Master," replied the man, "leave out the 'rogue' when you call the dog; but I will pick up the bird."
In his effort to get it out, he had worked himself into the middle of the prickly bush, when the boy was seized with a longing to try his fiddle. But, scarcely had he begun to scrape, when the man began also to dance, and the faster the music, the faster and higher he jumped, though the thorns tore his dirty coat, combed out his dusty hair, and pricked and scratched his whole body.
"Leave off, leave off," cried he, "I do not wish to dance!"
But he cried in vain. "You have flayed many a man, I dare say," answered the boy, "now we will see what the thorn-bush can do for you!"
And louder and faster sounded the fiddle, and faster and higher danced the gipsy, all the thorns were hung with the tatters of his coat.
"Mercy, mercy," he screamed at last; "you shall have whatever I can give you, only cease to play. Here, here, take this purse of gold!"
"Since you are so ready to pay," said the boy, "I will cease my music; but I must say that you dance well to it—it is a treat to see you."
With that he took the purse and departed.