The wheat grew very rapidly, but bore no fruit. It did not matter to the rich even if traffic had ceased. They did not suffer. The poor, however, were greatly distressed, for they now had nothing to do. They besought help from the rich, but their prayers fell upon deaf ears.
Not long afterward a little leak was discovered in the dyke which protected the city. Through this the sea water crept into the city reservoir, spoiling all the drinking water.
The rich people only laughed, saying that they would drink champagne, since water was not to be had. But what were the poor to do? They crowded around the gates of the rich, imploring a sup of beer, but were rudely driven away.
“It would be a good thing,” said the rich, “if these wretched creatures should actually die. Of what use are they to themselves or to any one else?”
The rich of Stavoren had had their last chance to do good. That very same night when the revelers had returned to sleep, the sea broke down the weakened dykes. Bursting in, it covered up the whole town.
Over the spot where Stavoren once stood the waves now glitter in the bright sun light or plunge and dash when the cold winds come sweeping in from the sea.
Boatmen come rowing up from the desolate little fishing town which now bears the name of the ancient city. When the waters are smooth they rest upon their oars to point out far beneath them the spires and turrets and palaces of Stavoren.
The streets of the old town as it lies beneath the waves, once so populous, are deserted. The market place is empty. No sound is to be heard except when some inquiring fish, swimming through the belfries, strikes one of the bells with his tail. Then there is heard a sad sound which seems to be tolling the knell of the sunken city.