"Then I guess the sheep are having a meeting, too. Look under the side of that ledge of rocks. What a lot of 'em! and their heads all one way! There's one cloud, a real mare's tail" (cirrus), "creeping up in the north."
"Here comes Jacques, running as hard as he can. Look at him. He's hallooing, and making signals. I can't hear a word he says; but it must be something about the fleet."
The boys, occupied with the singular conduct of Jacques, had ceased to take note of the sky, or they would have perceived that the cirrus cloud had spread out, covering a great extent of sky, while below it was another, of darker hue, and, while striving to catch Jacques' words, attributed his signals to something connected with the fleet; and so did the captain, who, having observed his motions, was hastening to the tree in order to see if there was any man-o'-war in sight.
But Jacques was shouting, "Mistral, mistral!" with all his might. There was a sharp flash, followed by a terrific peal of thunder, a roar among the tree-tops, and instantly the air was filled with broken limbs, leaves, both green and dry, torn from the trees, and raised from the ground, mixed with clouds of gravel. A large pine near by was torn up; the platform, with everything on it, sent whirling in the air, the oak bent, groaned, and seemed ready to follow the pine. Walter caught hold of a limb forming one side of a crotch; the branch split down four or five feet, when the limb to which he clung came in contact with another cross limb; the tough fibres of the oak, aided by the spring of the cross limb, held on, and there he hung, blown out like a streamer. Ned caught by a larger branch, clasping it with his legs. The captain's spy-glass, falling into the cleft of the fork, stuck there; three of the chairs went over the land to sea; another lodged in the thick top of a pine; the rest went across the cove, and were blown up against the bank. Ned's blanket was twisted round the main-topmast rigging; Walter's sailed for parts unknown. Ned's bed, lavender and all, went to sea; Walter's was jammed between two rocks, on the end of the high bluff.
Hail, mixed with snow, began to fall, and everything wore the garb of winter. When the squall struck, the captain was half way up the tree; the rope-ladder being on the weather-side, the lashings that held the bull's eyes to the ground were parted, and the shrouds, with the captain clinging to them, blew out at an acute angle with the tree.
"Ned!" shouted Walter.
"All right, Wal, I am now," was the reply, as he succeeded in getting hold of the limb over which that to which he clung was chafing.
"This beautiful climate of Provence," said Ned—"see the snow!"
"This wind is right from the Alps," said Walter. "Cuts like a knife."
It was indeed the terrible mistral, the scourge of Provence.