The clouds mounted higher and higher; they saw star after star and constellation after constellation blotted out, or swallowed up as it were in the gloom. Still they sat and silently watched.
The suspense was terrible; every flash was now like a message from an unseen world, every peal sounded like a knell of doom.
Tom was praying. He was trying hard, too, to yield himself to the will of heaven; but it seemed sad to die so young.
Probably he had fallen into a kind of uneasy doze at last, for suddenly he felt Samaro clutch at his arm.
“It is coming! It is coming!” he cried.
“The flood, Samaro? Is it coming at last?”
“No, no, señor. I would not wake you for that. Better you should die asleep. But look yonder! Look eastwards!”
Tom did as he was told, and saw in the sky a long line of glittering silver.
The moon was rising!
Up, up, up she sailed, the clouds changing from black to gauze and gold before her, and by and by she found a little rift of blue to shine in, and her radiance was reflected from the river beneath as if showers of diamonds were falling on it from the sky.