The trumpet resounded now and then with its merry, loud brass voice, out of tune,--and then everything died away.

And the clock on the tower struck again, slowly, mournfully, hardly stirring the silence.
"They are gone!" thought Musya, with a feeling of slight sadness.

She felt sorry for the departing sounds, which had been so cheerful and so comical.

She was even sorry for the departed little soldiers, because those busy soldiers, with their brass trumpets and their creaking boots, were of an entirely different sort, not at all like those at whom she had felt like firing a revolver.
"Come again!" she begged tenderly.

And more came.