[Exit.]

FISCHER.

Do tell me what this is—­the play itself—­it appears again as a play in the play.

SCHLOSS.

Without much ceremony, I am crazy—­didn’t I say at once, that is the enjoyment of art which you are said to have here?

LEUTNER.

No tragedy has ever affected me as this farce has.

In front of the tavern

THE HOST (reaping corn with a scythe).

This is hard work!  Well, of course people cannot be deserting every day either.  I only wish the harvest were over.  After all, life consists of nothing but work; now draw beer, then clean glasses, then pour it out—­now even reap.  Life means work—­and here some learned folk are even so wicked, in their books, as to try to put sleep out of fashion, because one does not live enough for one’s time.  But I am a great friend of sleep.

[Enter HINZE.]

HINZE.

Whoever wants to hear something wonderful, listen to me now!  How I have been running!—­first from the royal palace to Gottlieb, second with Gottlieb to the palace of the Bugbear where I left him, third from there back again to the king, fourth I am now racing ahead of the king’s coach like a courier and showing him the way.  Hey! good friend!

HOST.

Who’s that?  Countryman, you must probably be a stranger, for the people in this neighborhood know that I do not sell any beer about this time; I need it for myself; when one does work like mine, one must also fortify one’s self.  I am sorry, but I cannot help you.

HINZE.

I do not want any beer, I never drink beer; I only want to say a few words to you.

HOST.

You must certainly be a regular idler, to attempt to disturb industrious people in their occupation.

HINZE.

I do not wish to disturb you.  Just listen:  the neighboring king will drive by here, he will probably step out of his carriage and inquire to whom these villages belong.  If your life is dear to you, if you do not wish to be hanged or burned, then be sure to answer:  to the Count of Carabas.

HOST.

But, Sir, we are subject to the law.

HINZE.

I know that well enough, but, as I said, if you do not wish to die, this region here belongs to the Count of Carabas.

[Exit.]

HOST.

Many thanks!  Now this would be the finest kind of opportunity for me to get out of ever having to work again.  All I need do is to say to the king—­the country belongs to the Bugbear.  But no, idleness breeds vice:  Ora et labora is my motto.

[A fine carriage with eight horses, many servants behind; it stops; the KING and PRINCESS step out.]

PRINCESS.

I am somewhat curious to see the Count.

KING.

So am I, my daughter.  Good day, my friend.  To whom do these villages here belong?