The men were hoarse with shouting, the harness was rent to pieces, the horses lay down in the mud, and the weather began to grow beautifully dark.

Mr.Peter Bus, with a lightened heart, knocked the ashes of his pipe-bowl into the palm of his hand.

Thank God! no guest will come to-day, and his heart rejoiced as, passing through the door, he perceived the empty coach-house, in which his little family of poultry, all huddled up together for the night, was squabbling sociably.

He himself ordered the whole of his household to bed, for candles were dear, put out the fire, and stretching himself at his ease on his _bunda_, chuckled comfortably behind his lighted pipe, and fell reflecting on the folly of people travelling anywhere in such dripping weather.
While Mr.Peter Bus was calmly sleeping the sleep of the just, danger was approaching the house from the other, the further side.

In the direction of Nyiregyhaza there was no dike indeed, and the water was free to go up and down wherever it chose.