They were riding again now on the narrow sandy road between the first outlying houses. The Count spurred forward. He was glad that the houses hid the view below; he wanted to draw Carla on, who had again several times anxiously inquired whether they had not better turn back. The rest might be managed; it might not perhaps be so bad as it had seemed to him from above; at any rate Carla had hardly seen anything, and was only alarmed at the roar of the surf, which had been bad enough certainly from the heights. But what was that roar compared to the thunder which met them now, as they turned from the narrow way between the first low huts into the broad village street, at whose lower end stood the inn, and which led directly down to the sea. It seemed to the Count strangely short; and indeed the sea, which used to leave several hundred yards of smooth sand uncovered, now flung its waves far up the street. And that street was crowded with crying, shrieking, screaming women and children, and shouting and halloing men, flinging out their goods pell-mell from the houses, rushing back to fetch more, and strewing everything wildly over the ground before the gale brought their houses down about their ears. "Make way there, make way!" called the Count imperiously. He did not feel particularly comfortable in this crowd, in which more than one person glared angrily at him, and hardly moved out of the way of the horses. It sounded like a curse, too, which the woman called after him, whom by accident--why did she not get out of the way?--he had knocked down, and who now in the door of her cottage shook both her fists at him, and then pointing her finger at him called to her neighbours; but the raging storm swallowed up the single human voice. The Count could not even understand half of what the young engineer called to him, who had suddenly--he could not see whence--rushed up to him, as he persistently pointed down below: "Breakwater--tremendous breakers--boats wrecked--people furious--get back--happen----" "What should happen to me?" screamed back the Count in answer. "Mischief--the lady too--unpardonable of you--too late!" The young man pointed no longer below, but in the direction from which they had come. The Count, startled more by the look of terror in the young man's face than by the warning itself, turned in his saddle, and at the same moment set spurs to his horse. He had seen a crowd of men and women--foremost the one who had just threatened him--rushing down the street, brandishing sticks, cudgels, and knives. His first thought had been to take refuge in the inn, which must afford him shelter till he could speak a few words to the people, perhaps from the window--fear had evidently driven them wild. And with this purpose, dashing on before Carla, he had almost gained the little open space in front of the inn, when he suddenly discovered that he was only going from bad to worse.