A stag, escaping hunters, hid himself with oxen in a stable.
“Please,” he said, “my brothers, don’t expose me. In exchange, I’ll show you where the finest pasture is—which someday might be useful to you all.”
The oxen promised they would not betray him. Crouching in a corner, he regained his breath, and courage.
When the farmhands and their foreman brought new fodder, as they did each day, they didn’t notice anything unusual, and came and went. The stag rejoiced, and thanked the oxen, one of whom said, ruminating:
“Wait to celebrate till Old Man Argus has his little look-see.”
The master then arrived and made his rounds.
“What’s this?” he cried. (The stag grew faint with fear.) “This feed-rack’s still half empty! Strew some straw that’s fresher here! There’s cobwebs everywhere, you slobs! These collars and these yokes won’t put themselves away!”
He stopped then, having seen the extra, antlered head.
“A trespasser,” he said. “Get rid of him.”
The poor stag’s tears elicited no mercy; farmhands grabbed their implements and stabbed and clubbed the beast to death.
The master then gave orders for the carving and the curing of the carcass. The venison the stag had been was served at many feasts to many neighbors.
A proprietor’s discerning eye discovers everything—not unlike a jealous lover’s.