They went on into dirty, narrow streets, where the little strip of blue sky looked only a finger's width; and even then was clouded by the clothes hung out to dry. It swarmed with people there. They jostled one another, shouted, laughed, and sometimes sang. In the houses the rooms were so small, so dark and damp, that Johannes hardly dared to breathe. He saw ragged children creeping over the bare floors; and young girls, with disheveled hair, humming melodies to thin, pale nurslings. He heard quarreling and scolding, and all the faces around him were tired, dull, or indifferent. Johannes' heart was wrung with pain. It was not akin to his earlier grief--he was ashamed of that. "Pluizer," he asked, "have these people always lived here--so dreary and so wretched? While I...." He dared not go on. "Certainly; and that is fortunate. Indeed, their life is not so very dreary and wretched. They are inured to this, and know nothing better. They are dull, careless cattle. Do you see those two women there--sitting in front of their door? They look as contentedly over the foul street as you used to look upon your dunes. There is no need for you to cry over these people. You might as well cry about the moles that never see the daylight." Johannes did not know what to reply, nor did he know why he felt so sad. In the midst of the clamorous pushing and rushing he still saw the pale, hollow-eyed man, striding with noiseless steps. "He is a good man after all. Do you not think so?" said Pluizer, "to take the people away from this? But even here they are afraid of him." When night fell, and hundreds of lamps flickered in the wind--casting long, wavering lights over the black water, they passed through the silent streets. The tall old houses looked tired--as if leaning against one another in sleep. Most of them had closed their eyes; but here and there a window still sent out a faint, yellow glimmer. Pluizer told Johannes long stories about those who dwelt behind them--of the pains that were there endured, and of the struggles that took place there between misery and love of life. He did not spare him, but selected the gloomiest, the lowest, and most trying; and grinned with enjoyment when Johannes grew pale and silent at his shocking tales. "Pluizer," asked Johannes, suddenly, "do you know anything about the Great Light?" He thought that that question might save him from the darkness which was pressing closer and heavier upon him. "Chatter! Windekind's chatter!" said Pluizer. "Phantoms--illusions! There are only people--and myself. Do you fancy that any kind of god could take pleasure in anything on this earth--such a medley as there is here to be ruled over? Moreover, such a Great Light would not leave so many here--in the darkness." "But those stars! Those stars!" cried Johannes; as if expecting that visible splendor to protest for him against this statement.