He could hardly hear his own voice. The lightning might have been a bursting shell that had rent a dam. The thunder of the rain out-roared that of the clouds—overbore the struggling wind and pinned it to the earth—smote upon the roof in tearing volleys, and made of all the atmospheric envelope a crashing loom of water.
“Nicette!” cried the young man, frightened to see the girl yet hide her face from him. He was conscious of something crouching at her feet, and, looking down, saw that terror had driven Baptiste, the little boy, to the refuge of their company.
In his panic, Ned impulsively seized the maid into his arms.
“You are not hurt!” he implored. “I kept you by the window. My God! if you should be injured through my fault!”
She was not at least so stunned but that his impassioned self-reproach could inform her cheeks with a rose of fire. The stain of it, could he have seen, soaked to the very white nape of her neck.
“Hold me,” she whimpered. “Don’t let me go, or I shall die!”
She strained to him, patently and without any thought of dissimulation, palpitating with terror as the rain roared and the frequent detonations shook the house. In the first of his apprehension he thought of nothing compromising in the situation—of nothing but his own concern and the girl’s pitiful state.
Presently, in a lull, he heard her exclaiming—
“Mother of God! if I were to go blind!”
“Don’t suggest such a thing!” he cried in anguish.