It was so black that he could not see the shadow of the
water almost within reach of his hands, but through the chaos of
gloom that lay between him and the opposite shore he made out a
single point of yellow light. He was positive the light was in the
cabin on the raft. And St. Pierre was probably in that cabin.
A huge drop of rain splashed on his hand, and behind him he heard
sweeping over the forest tops the quickening march of the deluge.
There was no crash of thunder or flash of lightning when it broke.
Straight down, in an inundation, it came out of a sky thick enough
to slit with a knife. Carrigan drew in his head and shoulders and
sniffed the sweet freshness of it. He tried again to make out the
light on the raft, but it was obliterated.
Mechanically he began taking off his clothes, and in a few moments
he stood again at the window, naked. Thunder and lightning had
caught up with the rain, and in the flashes of fire Carrigan's
ghost-white face stared in the direction of the raft. In his veins
was at work an insistent and impelling desire. Over there was St.
Pierre, he was undoubtedly in the cabin, and something might
happen if he, Dave Carrigan, took advantage of storm and gloom to
go to the raft.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248