Only late on did the tumult die down in the town, after the fire in the burning house behind the sea wall had been extinguished. Earlier it was quiet on board the Andrea Doria. Antonio lay motionless in the place assigned to him and Leone sat equally motionless next to him while Myga crouched in the darkest, most far away corner of the cabin. Over the whole ship scarcely a sound could be heard other than the murmur of the river, the noise of the rigging swaying in the wind and the pacing of the sentry who, with a loaded musket and a slow-burning match walked up and down before the prisoner chained to the mast and did not take his eyes off him for an instant. At two o'clock in the morning the wind died down completely and even the creaking noise made by the rigging ceased. It was as silent as the grave aboard the Andrea Doria--a deep silence that was suddenly and all the more spinetinglingly broken by a shout and the noise of a shot. Out of the cabin rushed Leone della Rota onto the deck. From their bunks and hammocks rushed out ordinary sailors. The place formerly occupied by the prisoner at the main mast was empty. The sentry stood there with a smoking musket, casting around him confused glances, besieged by the questions and the oaths of both officers and crew. "There he is, there! Man overboard!" went up the hoarse cry from the chest of the dumbfounded man. "Where? Where? Where?" Everyone rushed to the side of the ship. "Down with the boats! Quickly! Quickly!" rapped the lieutenant's commanding voice. It was lively on the Scheldt where lights were shining through the night, but the nights are dark in November. A corpse heading downstream was fished out of the water, but it was not that of Jan Norris. Going downriver, on both banks, alarm signals were flying, but the efforts of all the ships' boats sent out from Antwerp were in vain. Had Jan Norris been rescued? Had he been killed by the waves? Who could say? But how Myga van Bergen sat up in her corner listening when she heard that her beloved had burst free from his bonds and jumped over the side. Morning broke, but it brought no news of the sea beggar who had escaped. On the deck of the Andrea Doria Leone della Rota walked backwards and forwards with arms folded and whispered to himself: "If only he hadn't said it! He'll die and it'll be all my fault. Oh Antonio! Poor Antonio! He predicted this. Me as captain of the Andrea Doria, himself a corpse at the bottom of the sea." The lieutenant stopped. "And yet, Leone, will the same fate not befall you yourself perhaps soon, maybe even tomorrow? Who fears death? Death is annihilation. Long live life! Here comes the sun. I can breathe freely again and clouds of blood disappear from before my eyes! I want to toast the morning in the fiery wine of Syracuse, even should it prove to be the last morning I ever see!"