“I can imagine it.  I smell it.  I want another lump of sugar, then I’ll drink it.”

The Fairy, with all the patience of a good mother, gave him more sugar and again handed him the glass.

“I can’t drink it like that,” the Marionette said, making more wry faces.

“Why?”

“Because that feather pillow on my feet bothers me.”

The Fairy took away the pillow.

“It’s no use.  I can’t drink it even now.”

“What’s the matter now?”

“I don’t like the way that door looks.  It’s half open.”

The Fairy closed the door.

“I won’t drink it,” cried Pinocchio, bursting out crying.  “I won’t drink this awful water.  I won’t.  I won’t!  No, no, no, no!”

“My boy, you’ll be sorry.”

“I don’t care.”

“You are very sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“In a few hours the fever will take you far away to another world.”

“I don’t care.”

“Aren’t you afraid of death?”

“Not a bit.  I’d rather die than drink that awful medicine.”

At that moment, the door of the room flew open and in came four Rabbits as black as ink, carrying a small black coffin on their shoulders.

“What do you want from me?” asked Pinocchio.

“We have come for you,” said the largest Rabbit.

“For me?  But I’m not dead yet!”

“No, not dead yet; but you will be in a few moments since you have refused to take the medicine which would have made you well.”

“Oh, Fairy, my Fairy,” the Marionette cried out, “give me that glass!  Quick, please!  I don’t want to die!  No, no, not yet—­not yet!”

And holding the glass with his two hands, he swallowed the medicine at one gulp.

“Well,” said the four Rabbits, “this time we have made the trip for nothing.”

And turning on their heels, they marched solemnly out of the room, carrying their little black coffin and muttering and grumbling between their teeth.

In a twinkling, Pinocchio felt fine.  With one leap he was out of bed and into his clothes.

The Fairy, seeing him run and jump around the room gay as a bird on wing, said to him: 

“My medicine was good for you, after all, wasn’t it?”

“Good indeed!  It has given me new life.”

“Why, then, did I have to beg you so hard to make you drink it?”

“I’m a boy, you see, and all boys hate medicine more than they do sickness.”

“What a shame!  Boys ought to know, after all, that medicine, taken in time, can save them from much pain and even from death.”

“Next time I won’t have to be begged so hard.  I’ll remember those black Rabbits with the black coffin on their shoulders and I’ll take the glass and pouf!—­down it will go!”

“Come here now and tell me how it came about that you found yourself in the hands of the Assassins.”