“You had none old enough.”
“You cannot escape. Fate will overtake you though the Yamen runners fail.”
The priest took the man’s arm and dragged him away.
They trudged on, whither? This thought did not occur to any of them. They now forgot the wind and the waters that flowed underfoot. To the man Tsang this raging of the elements seemed a natural portion of his ruin. He became part of this environment of wrath and was contented in it. The storm was companionable. This tempest and the man held converse, which was friendly.
The Breton led the way while the mother trudged on behind. This woman hardly knew that she was turned out of doors and was wandering about in the night through a wreck of waters. What did she care for these rending winds; this night vomit of heaven; these red forks of fire or blare of thunder?
Her babe suckled.
So they went on in single file until suddenly the little boy on the Breton’s shoulder began to cry, which was next best to the stopping of the storm.
The Breton turned to the man.
“Where can we find shelter for your wife and babies?”
“In to-morrow.”