'The weathercock is squeaking now,' said he.
'Just fancy! Go to sleep,' said his wife; and the old man tried to.
For the third time he jumped out of bed.
'Ho! how the weathercock is roaring at the pitch of its voice, as if it had a fire inside it! We are going to have a tempest, and must bring in the net.'
Both rose. The summer night was as dark as if it had been October, the weathercock creaked, and the storm was raging in every direction. As they went out the sea lay around them as white as snow, and the spray was dashing right over the fisher-hut. In all his life Matte had never remembered such a night. To launch the boat and put to sea to rescue the net was a thing not to be thought of. The fisherman and his wife stood aghast on the doorstep, holding on fast by the doorpost, while the foam splashed over their faces.
'Did I not tell thee that there is no luck in Sunday fishing?' said Matte sulkily; and his wife was so frightened that she never even once thought of Ahti's cows.
As there was nothing to be done, they went in. Their eyes were heavy for lack of slumber, and they slept as soundly as if there had not been such a thing as an angry sea roaring furiously around their lonely dwelling. When they awoke, the sun was high in the heavens, the tempest had ceased, and only the swell of the sea rose in silvery heavings against the red rock.
'What can that be?' said the old woman, as she peeped out of the door.
'It looks like a big seal,' said Matte.