"Tuts, man, dinna be feared," he said. "You're John Gourlay's son, ye know. You ought to be a hardy man."
"Ay, but I'm no," chattered John, the truth coming out in his fear. "I just let on to be."
But the worst was soon over. Lightning, both sheeted and forked, was vivid as ever, but the thunder slunk growling away.
"The heavens are opening and shutting like a man's eye," said Gourlay. "Oh, it's a terrible thing the world!" and he covered his face with his hands.
A flash shot into a mounded wood far away. "It stabbed it like a dagger!" stared Gourlay.
"Look, look, did ye see yon? It came down in a broad flash—then jerked to the side—then ran down to a sharp point again. It was like the coulter of a plough."
Suddenly a blaze of lightning flamed wide, and a fork shot down its centre.
"That," said Gourlay, "was like a red crack in a white-hot furnace door."
"Man, you're a noticing boy," said the baker.