A bright spring day now began; the sun rose cloudlessly behind the farm-yard, and soon warmed the mist that hung around the walls; the people sought out the sunny corner of the court; the men sat in little groups with their wives and children, and all seemed in good heart. Anton went in and out among them. "We must have patience till noon—perhaps till the afternoon; then our troops will come."
"If those fellows yonder do no more than at present," replied the smith, "we may be easy enough. They stand there like so many wooden posts."
"They lost their courage yesterday," said another, contemptuously.
"It was a mere straw-fire; the smith threw it down, and they have nothing to follow it up with," cried a third.
The smith folded his arms and smiled proudly, his wife looking at him with delight.
Next the upper story began to show symptoms of life. The baron rang and demanded a report. Anton went up to give it him, then entered Fink's room and woke his friend, who was still fast asleep.
"Good-morning, Tony," cried Fink, comfortably stretching himself. "I shall be down in a moment. If you can send me a little water through some of your connections, I shall be very grateful to you."
"I will get you a bottle of wine from the cellar," replied Anton; "you must wash in wine to-day."
"Ha!" cried Fink, "is it come to that? At all events, it is not Port wine, I hope."
"We have but a few bottles of either kind," continued Anton.