Page:The International - Volume 7.djvu/235



LD FOLTYN took his colossal drum, a venerable relic of the grand old patrimonial times, and went out to the front of the castle. It seemed as though Time in his forbearance had for the sake of the drum spared the drummer; for the tall, angular figure, carried in an upright, military fashion, the face in spite of its countless wrinkles still possessing a trace of youthful color on the cheeks and a youthful sparkle in the clear blue eyes, the ragged moustaches, the broad scar on the forehead, the decorous premeditation evident in every movement of limb, seemed indeed the living vestige of past feudal glory.

Old Foltyn was the gatekeeper of the castle. The dignity was hereditary in the Foltyn family. As in the mediæval ages the vassal families devoted themselves to the service of their sovereign, so the Foltyns through many generations confined their ambitions within the functions of gatekeepers, bailiffs, herdsmen, and gamekeepers in the service of the noble owners of this castle. Indeed, one member of the family in his day became footman to one of the barons and consequently also the pride and boast of his numerous kinsfolk ever after.

Now, then, old Foltyn stood before the castle with his drum, to all appearance as if he intended to drum up the village council for some important official business. In truth, alas! the drumming was only a signal to an army of old women who worked on the manorial fields that the hour of noon rest had expired.

Slightly bending his head, he raised the sticks above the drum. But, hark! what was that? After several well promising strokes the performance was suddenly cut short, ending in a strange low sound! Many an old woman, on hearing that peculiar sound, dropped her spoon in amazement, and pricked up her ears. Then, when the odd sound remained the last, she threw her cotton shawl hastily over her gray plaits, and, hastening forth to her neighbor’s hut, met its inmate halfway, and read on her lips the identical question she herself was burning to ask. What could have happened, that Foltyn’s execution, usually long and artistic, took such an unusual turn?

What had happened is easily told. If at that particular moment the reader had stood in Foltyn’s place, and also owned Foltyn’s falcon sight, he would have seen on the turn of the road below the woods a dark object moving rapidly toward the village. Later he would have distinguished it to be a vehicle and a pair of horses of a style unknown in this obscure corner of the world.

When the gatekeeper’s observation reached this point, his recovery from the petrified wonder into which the first sight of the strange object had cast him was instantaneous, and he started for the castle on a run.

The steward’s assistant, Beruska, with a mournful look was bidding a silent farewell to a delicious piece of roast meat over which his superior’s fork was ominously hovering when old Foltyn with his drum rushed into the dining room. Pale, with eyes staring wildly, forehead damp with perspiration, lips moving mutely, one stick beating the air nervously, the old man presented a queer sight. With astonishment all at the table turned toward him, dreading the news the terrible import of which was so plainly visible on his features.

“Their lord  lordships!” stammered he at last.

“What?” shrieked the steward, and dropped the fork.

“Their lordships below the woods,” replied Foltyn with awful certainty.

The steward jumped up from the table, seized his holiday coat and in his excitement began to put it on over his colored lounging robe ; the stewardess, for reasons unfathomable, hastily began to gather up all the silverware on the table; the assist-