A rushlight burnt in the room, and the farmer's wife kept putting it straight on its spike. Peter wound up the smoke-browned clock on the wall.
Just as husband and wife were about to get into bed, the watch-dog in the yard began to bark. There came a light tapping at the window-pane.
"Who's that?" cried the farmer.
And his wife added crossly:
"There's no peace for us to-day!"
"It's someone begging for a night's shelter," said a hoarse voice outside.
"I expect it's a poor man," said the farmer's wife. "That's quite a different thing. Go and unbolt the door, Peter."
Soon after a man stumbled into the room, weary and bent, grasping a long stick in his right hand and carrying a little bundle in his left. A wide-brimmed, discoloured, crushed felt hat was on his head, and under the brim hung snow-white strands of hair.
Peter took the rush in his hand and threw a light upon the stranger's face. Then he exclaimed:
"Heavens! It can't be possible——! Why, it's the schoolmaster of Rattenstein!"