It was
dusk in this narrow pass. The trees hung, shadows in a brooding
twilight; between the close-set pillars of the hills the sky showed
slate-hued, with pallid feathers of cloud driven across. Lightning
tore it, the thunder was loud, the trees upon the hilltops began to
move. Some raindrops fell, large, slow, and warm. The lightning ran
again, blindingly bright; the ensuing thunderclap seemed to shake the
rock. As it died, the cataract sound of the wind was heard among the
ranked trees. The drops came faster, came fast.
"It's no use!" cried Ian. "You'll be drenched and blinded! There's
danger, too, in these tall trees. Come back to the cave and take
shelter!"
He turned. She followed him, breathless, liking the storm--so that no
bolt struck him. In every nerve, in every vein, she felt life rouse
itself. It was like day to old night, summer to one born in winter, a
passion of revival where she had not known that there was anything to
revive. The past was as it were not, the future was as it were not;
all things poured into a tremendous present. It was proper that there
should be storm without, if within was to be this enormous, aching,
happy tumult that was pain indeed, but pain that one would not spare!
Ian parted the swinging briers. They entered the cavern. If it was
dim outside in the glen, it was dimmer here.
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