"K-r-r-r! hi! don't ye har me callin'!" Cudjo sprang up the ledge. "Fire's a comin' to de cave! All in de brush dar! Can't get in widout ye go now!"
"And Pomp and the rest! They will be shut out, if they are not lost already!"
"Pomp know well 'nuff what him 'bout, tell ye! Gorry, massa! ye got to come, if Cudjo hab to tote ye!"
Yielding to his importunity, Penn quitted the ledge. On the shelf of rock Cudjo paused to gnash his teeth at the flames sweeping up towards them. He had long since recovered from his fit of superstitious frenzy. He had seen the fire burning the woods that sheltered him in his mountain retreat, instead of going intelligently to work to destroy the dwellings of the whites; and he no longer regarded it as a deity worthy of his worship.
"All dis yer brush be burnt up! Den nuffin' to hide Cudjo's house!"
"Don't despair, Cudjo. We will trust in Him who is God even of the fire."
Even as Penn spoke, he felt a cool spatter on his hand. He looked up; sudden, plashy drops smote his face.
"Rain! It is coming! Thank Heaven for the rain!"
At the same time, the wind shifted, and blew fitful gusts down the mountain. Then it lulled; and the rain poured.
"Cudjo, your thickets are saved!" said Penn, exultantly. Then immediately he thought of the absent ones, for whom the rain might be too late; of the beautiful forests, whose burning not cataracts could quench; of the unknown corpse far below in the ravine there, and the swift soul gone to God.