So she left his immediate presence, and he became unconscious of his surroundings, and tramped across the rough mountainous country determined to reach Mrs Stanhope. He did not notice the signs in the heavens; the gathering storm gave him no warning; or at least no warning reached him. The storm broke loose at last, and aroused him to the knowledge that he was miles away from the Gaard, lost on the mountains, and alone with Nature in her wildest mood. The heavens were in raging tumult; the thunder was terrific; the lightning appalling. At first there was no rain. The man leaned against a rock and watched the awful splendour of the scene; watched the opening of the clouds and the passing of the lightning. It held him spellbound, entranced. He had always loved to be out in a great storm. He stood there, an unconscious target for its fury, and nothing harmed him; the lightning played around him, tore up the ground within a few yards of his feet, withered up a stunted juniper-bush within reach of his arm. Nature, working harm and bringing sorrow in other directions, spared him to those who loved him and were waiting for him.
So he stood, confronting the storm, with all personal thoughts and emotions in abeyance. But when the rain poured down in torrents, he began to think of finding shelter, and remembered that he had passed a lonely little Saeter. He had only a vague idea of his bearings; and, indeed, without knowing it, as he tried to retrace his steps he was wandering farther away, both from that Saeter and from the Gaard.
He became distressed about the anxiety which his prolonged absence would be causing to his friends: to dear old Knutty, who had seen him start off so sadly: to his boy: to Katharine. He knew that they were waiting for him, and wanting him, and that they were watching the storm, and watching the evening fading into the night. He knew so well that Knutty would pretend not to be troubled, and would scold every one who even suggested that there might be cause for anxiety. He almost heard her saying:
"He loves a thunderstorm. The silly fellow, I know him well!"
He smiled as he thought of her.
"My dear old Dane!" he said. "My dear old brick of a Dane!"
He wandered on and on trying to find the Saeter, changing his direction several times, but in vain. But at last he caught sight of a habitation at some distance, and made straight for it, thankful to have found a haven. There was a light in the hut. Clifford knocked, and the door was instantly opened. There was a fire in the stove.
"Ak," said the old woman who opened the door, "I thought it was my son. But you are welcome. It is a fearful night. Many times I thought the hut was struck. I am glad for company."
The son came in a few minutes afterwards, and she made hot coffee for them both, whilst they dried themselves before the crackling logs. And overcome by the genial warmth and his long wanderings, Clifford slept.
And he dreamed of Katharine. He dreamed that he, who had always found speech difficult, was able to tell her the story of Marianne's death. He dreamed that he went on telling her, and she went on listening; and it was such an easy matter to tell, that he only wondered he had been silent so long.