You shall have
the choice of your resting place, where would you like to sleep?"
"I choose the bee-house."
"Good. It is true that the night air is not very good for me. I will
sleep then in my usual resting place."
"And I will sleep among the bees. Their humming close beside a man's
ears generally brings him dreams that a king would envy."
"Then good night, sir."
"Good night."
They parted at the little porch. Gerzson wrapped his _bunda_ round his
shoulders and went towards the bee-house, but the priest returned to his
chamber, blew out the light, lay down fully dressed on his bed, took up
his rosary and fell a-praying like one who does not expect to see the
dawn of another day.
He knew his man; he knew what was coming.
Squire Gerzson, on the other hand, troubled himself not a jot about
possible consequences. With the nonchalance of a true sportsman, he lit
his pipe and, lest he should set anything on fire, he made up his mind
not to sleep a wink till he had smoked his pipe right out.
In order that slumber might not come upon him unawares, he resolved to
fix his eyes on the castle windows--as the best preservative against
dropping off. He could see them quite plainly from the bee-house.
The illuminated windows were darkened one by one. It seemed as if,
contrary to the words of the clergyman, the revellers within there did
not mean to await the rosy dawn glass in hand, but had lain down early.
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