On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves.  On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins.  They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that of the guide’s.  Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s tail.  They all had beards, of various shapes and colors.  There was one who seemed to be the commander.  He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them.  The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed.  Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such, fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together.  His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company.  He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided.  He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands.  He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught.  One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen.  He rubbed his eyes—­it was a bright, sunny morning.  The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.  “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.”  He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep.  The strange man with a keg of liquor—­the mountain ravine—­the wild retreat among the rocks—­the woe-begone party at ninepins—­the flagon—­“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!” thought Rip—­“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?”