Peter Schmidt was a Friesian.  He and Frederick had sat together on the same school bench; later, they had spent two years together in the gymnasium at St. Magdalene at Breslau and several semesters in the universities of Greifswald, Breslau, and Zuerich.  Owing to a combination of common sense, many-sided knowledge, and humanitarian enthusiasm, Peter Schmidt had exerted great influence on his friends.  There was also an adventurous streak in his nature, inherited from his father, a Friesian colonist, who lay buried in a churchyard in Meriden, Connecticut.

“It is good that you have come,” said Peter Schmidt.  Frederick felt as if he had been long expecting him.  “Your wife, Angele, just arrived in a skiff.”

His friend silently led him to an inn near the harbour.  A sense of security such as he had never before felt came over him.  While he took a little luncheon in the dining-room, where the host, a German, stood opposite, twirling his thumbs, Peter Schmidt explained: 

“The town is not large, but it will give you an idea of the country.  You will find people here that are contented and have made their last landing.”

It was taken as a matter of course that there, in that strange, silent city in the dazzling sunlight, the fewest possible words were to be spoken.  Some new, mute inner sense appeared to make meanings clear.  Nevertheless, Frederick said: 

“I’ve always taken you for the mentor in unknown depths of our predestination.”  By which he meant to express his awe at his friend’s mysterious being.

“Yes,” said Peter Schmidt, “but this is only a small beginning, though enough to indicate what is hidden under the surface here.”

Peter Schmidt, born in Tondern, now led Frederick out to the harbour.  It was a very small harbour.  There were a number of ancient vessels lying half-sunk in the water.

“Fourteen-ninety-two,” said Peter Schmidt.  That was the year the four hundredth anniversary of which was being much discussed by the Americans on board the Roland.  The Friesian pointed to both the half-submerged caravels and explained that one of them was the Santa Maria, Christopher Columbus’s flag-ship.  “I came over with Christopher Columbus,” he said.

All this was unqualifiedly enlightening to Frederick.  Nor was there anything enigmatic in Peter Schmidt’s explanation that the wood of those slowly decaying caravels was called legno santo and was used for fuel, because it contained the spirit of knowledge.  Farther out to sea lay a third vessel, with a great, black breach forward on the port side.

“It sank,” said the Friesian.  “It brought in a great lot of people.”

Frederick looked at the vessel.  He was dissatisfied.  He would have liked to ask questions about the unfamiliar, yet curiously familiar ship out there at sea; but the Friesian left the harbour and turned into a narrow, crooked street with a steep flight of stairs.