He had safely reached the main land, and the cool night air was fanning his heated face. He burst out laughing. The reins he still held tightly in his right hand. The moon was shining brightly, whilst dark clouds were gathering round the peaks of the Helvetian mountains. Master Spazzo now entered the dark fir-wood. Loudly and clearly, at measured intervals, the cuckoo's voice was heard through the silence around.
Master Spazzo laughed again. Was it some pleasant recollection? or, longing hope for the future, which made him smile so sweetly?
He stopped his horse.
"When will the wedding be?" called he out in the direction where the cuckoo was sitting on its tree. He counted the calls, but the cuckoo this time was indefatigable. Master Spazzo had already come to number twelve, when his patience began to wane.
"Hold thy tongue, confounded bird!" cried he. But the cuckoo called out for the thirteenth time.
"Five-and-fourty years we have got already," angrily exclaimed Master Spazzo, "and thirteen more, would make it fifty-eight. That would be a nice time, indeed!"
The cuckoo sang out for the fourteenth time.
Here, another woke up, and also raised its voice; a third one followed, and now there began a chorus of emulating cuckoo-voices around the tipsy chamberlain, so that all counting became impossible.
Now his patience left him entirely.
"Miserable liars and breakers of marriages, that's what you are," cried he furiously. "Would that the devil would take you altogether!"