Master of the Cellar (to Neumann). Who, pray, may that 110
swarthy man be, he with the cross, that is chatting so
confidentially with Esterhats?
Neumann. Ay! he too is one of those to whom they confide
too much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is he.
Master of the Cellar (impatiently). Spaniard! Spaniard!—I 115
tell you, friend; nothing good comes of those Spaniards. All
these out-landish[665:1] fellows are little better than rogues.
Neumann. Fy, fy! you should not say so, friend. There are
among them our very best generals, and those on whom the
Duke at this moment relies the most. 120
Master of the Cellar (taking the flask out of the Runner's pocket).
My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket.
[Tertsky hurries in, fetches away the paper, and calls to a Servant for pen and ink, and goes to the back of the stage.
Master of the Cellar (to the Servants). The Lieutenant-General
stands up.—Be on the watch.—Now! They break up.—Off,
and move back the forms.
[They rise at all the tables, the Servants hurry off the front of the stage to the tables; part of the guests come forward.