The monks of the community used from time to time to organize the mowing of the manuthion shrubs: indeed they would cut the amount needed for the entire year in one harvest, and, for the occasion, they also used to call in the cell-dwellers and any guest they could enlist to help. One day, therefore, after the harvest, they sat down to eat at about the fourth hour of the day, and the old man too sat with them at one of the tables … <A monk plays the fool and is scolded by George. but scoffs at his words.> … When they rose from the meal, every one lay down to rest wherever he found (a likely place), till the sun would decline from the zenith. And the brother went to sleep in the shelter of a rock, for he was very much cheered with wine, or rather in order that the old man’s words should be fulfilled. And in truth, as it happens to those who cut wood, he had a little prick made by a twig of manuthion in his calf, from which scratch a drop of blood had come out. Near the rock there was an ant-hill: the ants, smelling the wound, or rather the blood, (climbed to the scratch and) ate around it, so that the flesh was exposed and a wound formed, almost as big as a hand. <The monk wakes up, and horrified asks George’s pardon, and the wound is healed.>
(transl. Leah Di Segni)