The sturdily built old house trembled under that assaulting, and when the first cyclonic sweep of wind had rushed by the pelting of hail and rain was a roar as of small-arms after artillery.
"Gran'pap," gasped Dorothy. "I don't see how a livin' soul kin endure—out thar!"
Then came a concussion as though the earth had broken like a bursted emery wheel, and a hall of white fire seemed to pass through the walls of the place. Dorothy pitched forward, stunned, to the floor and at the pit of his stomach Cal Maggard felt a sudden sickness of shock that passed as instantly as it had come. He found himself electrically tingling through every nerve as the woman rose slowly and dazedly, staring about her.
"Did hit strike ... ther house?" she asked, faintly, and then with the same abruptness as that with which darkness had come, the sky began to turn yellowish again and they could see off across the road through the amber thickness of returning daylight.
"No," her husband said, hesitantly, "hit warn't ther house—but hit was right nigh!"
The girl followed his startled gaze, and there about the base of the walnut tree lay shaggy strips of rent bark.
Running down the trunk in the glaring spiral of a fresh scar two hand-breadths wide went the swath along which the bolt had plunged groundward.
For a few moments, though with a single thought between them, neither spoke. In the mind of Dorothy words from a faded page seemed to rewrite themselves: "Whilst that tree stands ... and weathers the thunder and wind ... our family also will wax strong and robust ... but when it falls——!"
Cal rose slowly to his feet, and the girl asked dully, "Where be ye goin'?"
"I'm goin'," he said as their eyes met in a flash of understanding, "ter seek fer yore gran'pap."