“Save yourselves!” cried Wilhelm, standing knee deep in the flood and not stepping out until each man had passed him. There was a straining crash of rending timber, and Gottlieb, dashing down, seized his master by the arm, crying:
“My Lord, my Lord, the house is about to fall!”
With slight loss of time commander and lieutenant stood together in the street and found that the latter’s panic was unwarranted, for the house, although it trembled dangerously and leaned perceptibly toward the river, was stoutly built of hewn stone. Grey daylight now began to spread over the city, but still Wilhelm stood there listening to the inrush of the water.
“By the great wine tub of Hundsrück!” exclaimed Gottlieb in amazement, “that cellar is a large one. It seems to thirst for the whole flood of the Main.”
“Send a messenger,” cried Wilhelm, “to the house you are guarding outside the gates and discover for me whether your men have captured any prisoners.”
It was broad daylight when the messenger returned, and the torrent down the stair had become a rippling surface of water at the level of the river, showing that all the cavern beneath was flooded.
“Well, messenger, what is your report?” demanded his commander.
“My Lord, the officer in charge says that a short time ago the door of the house was blown open as if by a strong wind; four men rushed out and another was captured in the garden; all were pinioned and gagged, as you commanded.”
“Are the prisoners men of quality or common soldiers?”
“Common soldiers, my Lord.”