“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has something of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.” “Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its personal appearance.” “Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.” “But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a very passable _skull_—indeed, I may say that it is a very _excellent_ skull, according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest _scarabæus_ in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug _scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?” “The _antennæ!_” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the _antennæ_. I made them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that is sufficient.” “Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;” and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_ visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.