"South-west, and blowing fresh, father," answered Gabriel.
"Good!" said the Consul. "It won't do us any harm if only the wind doesn't get round to the north-ward, because that drives the sea right in on to the yard."
The ladies were getting up to say good night, and Morten was just going to brew himself another glass of toddy, when excited voices were heard below. Some one came hurriedly up the staircase, the door opened, and in rushed Anders Begmand. His face was as white as it could be for sweat and pitch, his stiff hair was standing on end, while, hat in hand and with his eyes fixed on the young Consul, he began—"The—the—the"—quicker and quicker. It was quite plain that it was something of great importance, and his face grew as red as fire with the effort. "The—the—the"
"Sing, will you?" shouted the young Consul, stamping on the floor.
Begmand began singing to a merry little air, "A fire's broken out in the pitch-house!"
At the same moment some one in the yard below shouted at the top of his voice, "Fire! fire!"
Morten tore aside the blind, and the red glare could be seen on the dewy panes. Every one sprang to the window.
"Silence!" cried the young Consul, while every one paused and looked at him. The little man was standing as erect as an arrow, his eyes calm and clear, and his lower jaw projecting as usual; and as if
