At first the sound of it was like the
pattering of ten million tiny feet in dry leaves; then, suddenly,
it was like the roar of an avalanche. It was an inundation, and
with it came crash after crash of thunder, and the black skies
were illumined by an almost uninterrupted glare of lightning. It
had been a long time since Carrigan had felt the shock of such a
storm. He closed the window to keep the rain out, and after that
stood with his face flattened against the glass, staring over the
river. The camp-fires were all gone now, blotted out like so many
candles snuffed between thumb and forefinger, and he shuddered. No
canvas ever made would keep that deluge out. And now there was
growing up a wind with it. The tents on the other side would be
beaten down like pegged sheets of paper, ripped up and torn to
pieces. He imagined St. Pierre's wife in that tumult and distress
--the breath blown out of her, half drowned, blinded by deluge and
lightning, broken and beaten because of him. Thought of her
companions did not ease his mind. Human hands were entirely
inadequate to cope with a storm like this that was rocking the
earth about him.
Suddenly he went to the door, determined that if Bateese was
outside he would get some satisfaction out of him or challenge him
to a fight right there.
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