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 as soon as he was going to doze off. He turned from side to side, his bed seemed red-hot, he got up unrefreshed, unrested, more tired than when he had lain down.

In the morning the beater Kolar came to him. He was a small sinewy fellow with shoulders on which he might have carried large oak trees, had bright-red hair and a matted beard; his face was freckled, his pale eyes full of cunning. He was an old poacher who had been taken into the service solely to make him innocuous. The expression of his deeply-lined face was restless and vindictive.

He accosted Martin and said spitefully: ‘Sir, Novák’s old woman from Zbozi has bought six kreutzers’ worth of yeast. The old fellow must be in a bad way. Else paupers like that would never buy so much yeast.’

‘What has happened to him?’ asked the forester.

‘Don’t ask me; how should I know? But what does a poacher use yeast for, except his wounds?’ concluded the red-haired beater.

Martin went to see his friend.

‘The man I have wounded is dying. It is old Novák from Zbozi. Tell me, what made