“Come, come, dear Jan, don’t rejoice thyself so beforehand. Probably, they are celebrating the election of a new burgomaster.”
“Nay, nay, that is no official joy. Let us too go there and see the peasant girls dance—that is so charming.”
“Let us first drink a glass of ale with Peter Joostens, and ask him what is going on in the village.”
“And give ourselves up to the unexpected jollification, eh? So be it.”
The two travelers entered the inn, and thought they should die of laughter the moment they put their heads into the room. Peter Joostens stood erect and stiff beside the fire. His long, blue, holyday coat hung in rich folds almost down to his heels. He greeted the well-known guests with a heavy smile, in which a certain feeling of shame manifested itself, and he dared not move himself, for at every motion his stiff shirt collar cut his ears.
At the entry of the travelers, he exclaimed with impatience, but without turning his head—“Zanna! Zanna! hasten thee: I hear the music, and I have already told thee that we shall come too late.”
Zanna came running in with a basket full of flowers. She looked so charming with her crimped lace cap, her woollen gown, her rose-colored bodice, the large, golden heart at her breast, and her ear-rings. Her face was flushed with the bloom of the most joyous anticipation, and resembled a rose which opens its closed bud.
“A beautiful peony which blows on a fine summer day,” observed the younger companion.
Zanna had fetched the two desired glasses of ale, and now hastened out of the door with her flowers, singing and laughing. Still more impatiently shouted Peter Joostens with all his might:
“Lisbeth! if thou dost not come directly, I will go away without thee, as sure as I stand here.”