"Poor little fellow!" she murmured, with difficulty keeping her face
straight.
"Attention!" called the colonel, snapping the whip he held in his hand.
"What does the militiaman do when he is in a good humor?"
A bagpipe behind the curtain now began to play a familiar air, whereupon
the little monster first touched his finger to his hat, then slapped his
thighs with both hands, and lifted first one foot, then the other.
The baroness hid with her fan that side of her face which was toward the
neighboring castle, and joined in the uproarious laughter.
"You see, gracious baroness," continued the colonel, "that I have
accomplished what I determined I would do--made quite a man of the
little fellow."
He snapped his whip again, and called sharply:
"Now let the militiaman show us what he does when he is in an ill
humor."
The bagpipe struck up a different air. The dwarf muttered something
unintelligible into his mustache, and grimaced hideously. Then he took
from his tobacco-pouch flint, tinder, and steel, and struck fire in the
proper manner; he thrust the burning tinder into his pipe, and pressed
it down with his finger.
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