At this
Rhoecus laughed, and with a rough, impatient
hand he brushed it off and cried:--
``The silly insect! does it take me for a rose?''
But still the bee came back. Three times it
buzzed about his head, and three times he rudely
beat it back. Then straight through the window
flew the wounded bee, while Rhoecus watched its
fight with angry eyes.
And as he looked--O sorrow!--the red disk
of the setting sun descended behind the sharp
mountain peak of Thessaly.
Then instantly the blood sank from his heart, as
if its very walls had caved in, for he remembered
the trysting-hour-now gone by! Without a word
he turned and rushed forth madly through the city
and the gate, over the fields into the wood.
Spent of breath he reached the tree, and,
listening fearfully, he heard once more the low voice
murmur:--
``Rhoecus!''
But as he looked he could see nothing but the
deepening glooms beneath the oak.
Then the voice sighed: ``O Rhoecus, nevermore
shalt thou behold me by day or night! Why didst
thou fail to come ere sunset? Why didst thou
scorn my humble messenger, and send it back to
me with bruised wings? We spirits only show ourselves
to gentle eyes! And he who scorns the
smallest thing alive is forever shut away from all
that is beautiful in woods and fields. Farewell!
for thou canst see me no more!''
Then Rhoecus beat his breast and groaned aloud.
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