on him, frowning.
“What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?” he said in his shrill, harsh voice.
“The road is not swept for the princess my daughter, but for a minister! For me, there are no ministers!”
“Your honor, I thought …”
“You thought!” shouted the prince, his words coming more and more rapidly and indistinctly. “You thought! … Rascals! Blackguards! … I’ll teach you to think!” and lifting his stick he swung it and would have hit Alpátych, the overseer, had not the latter instinctively avoided the blow. “Thought … Blackguards …” shouted the prince rapidly.
But although Alpátych, frightened at his own temerity in avoiding the stroke, came up to the prince, bowing his bald head resignedly before him, or perhaps for that very reason, the prince, though he continued to shout: “Blackguards! … Throw the snow back on the road!”