A strong man with a southwester on his head had stepped in.
"Sir," he said, "we both have seen it--Hans Nickels and I: the rider on the white horse has thrown himself into the breach."
"Where did you see that?" asked the dikemaster.
"There is only the one break; in Jansen's fen, where the Hauke-Haienland begins."
"Did you see it only once?"
"Only once; it was only like a shadow, but that doesn't mean that this was the first time it happened."
The dikemaster had risen. "You must excuse me," he said, turning to me, "we have to go out and see what this calamity is leading to." Then he left the room with the messenger; the rest of the company too rose and followed him.
I stayed alone with the schoolmaster in the large deserted room; through the curtainless windows, which were now no longer covered by the backs of the guests sitting in front of them, one could have a free view and see how the wind was chasing the dark clouds across the sky.
The old man remained on his seat, with a superior, almost pitying smile on his lips. "It is too empty here now," he said; "may I invite you to my room? I live in this house; and believe me, I know every kind of weather here by the dike--there is nothing for us to fear."
This invitation I accepted with thanks, for I too began to feel chilly, and so we took a light and climbed up the stairs to a room under the gables; there the windows also looked toward the west, but they were covered by woollen rugs. In a bookcase I saw a small library, beside it portraits of two old professors; before a table stood a great high armchair. "Make yourself comfortable," said my pleasant host and threw some pieces of peat into the still faintly glowing stove, which was crowned by a tin kettle on top. "Only wait a little while! The fire will soon roar; then I'll mix you a little glass of grog--that'll keep you awake!"