“Are you drunk?” shouted the clerk.
Foltýn continued obstinately to beat the drum. From all sides figures came running in the dusk.
The steward came to Beruška’s assistance. “Stop, you maniac!” he thundered at Foltýn. “Don’t you know the baron is already sleeping? I’ll drive you out of service immediately.”
“Oh, just let him stay in service,” sounded the voice of the baron behind them. “He is a capital drummer.” Then he passed through the bowing crowd, whistling and switching his riding-boots with his whip. He was going for a walk.
When the baroness, attracted hither by the mysterious sound of the drum, had returned from the nightingales’ concert and entered the reception-room she beheld in the middle of it her beautiful, beloved statuette broken into many bits. From the weeping eyes of Marietta whom she summoned before her she at once learned the perpetrator. In great wrath she dismissed her from service on the spot. Short was the dream of tall buildings, beautiful people and splendid equipages!
At noon of the next day Foltýn stood in front of the castle and drummed the peasants to their labors. At the same time he gazed towards the forest road down which the noble carriage with marvelous speed was receding into the distance. When the carriage disappeared in the forest Foltýn breathed a sigh of relief, dropped the drumsticks and shook his head. And then
