He turned away then and went down to the seaside, and threw himself, in an agony of 86 despair, upon the sand and the yellow tangle. Hour after hour passed; physical exhaustion and mental grief produced at length a kind of lethargy, that oblivion, rather than sleep, which comes to souls which have felt till they can feel no longer.
Just at dark some one touched him, and asked sternly, “Art thou drunk, Jan Vedder, to-day? To-day, when thy wife is dying?”
“It is with sorrow I am drunk.” Then he opened his eyes and saw the minister standing over him. Slowly he rose to his feet, and stood stunned and trembling before him.
“Jan! Go to thy wife. She is very ill. At the last she may want thee and only thee.”
“They will not let me see her. Do thou speak to Peter Fae for me.”
“Hast thou not seen her—or thy son?”
“I have not been within the door. Oh, do thou speak for me!”
“Come with me.”
Together they went back to Peter’s house. The door was locked, and the minister knocked. “Who is there?”
“It is I, and Jan Vedder. Peter, unbolt the door.”