"It will be dawn soon," said Roger, looking at the wreck of the tent. "It's over now." He shivered.
"Not yet," said Lionel. "That's only half of it. There's the other half to come yet. I wonder how the bearers took it."
"I'll go and see," said Roger.
"Stay where you are," said Lionel. "You won't have time." The moon shewed for a brief moment—a sickly moon already threatened by scud. The clouds were rolling up again.
"This will be in our faces," said Lionel, raising his voice. "These are circular storms." The wind was muttering far off. All the earth was filled with a gloomy murmur. "Let's get into the wreck of the tent," Lionel added in a shout. "Into the wreck of the tent. We may die of cold if we don't." They hove up the heavy canvas so that they might creep within, under the folds. They cowered there close together, waiting, chilled to the bone.
"It's jolly cold," said Roger, with chattering teeth.
"Yes," said Lionel. "I've known a man die in one of these. Hold tight. Here it comes."
It came with such a shock of thunder and fire of lightning that they both started. They felt the folds of the tent surge and lift above them as the wind beat upon it. Some flap had blown loose. It flogged at Roger like a bar of hard wood. He understood then what sailors meant by wind. He felt a sort of exultation for a moment. Then one terrible blast flung him on his side, and rolled a great weight of wet canvas on him. He felt it quiver and hesitate. The wind seemed to be heaving and heaving, with multitudinous little howling devils. They were heaving up and heaving under. The whole mass hesitated. He was moved, he was swayed. He felt the fabric pause and totter upward and sink down. "We're going," he muttered, gulping. Afterwards, he maintained that nothing but the weight of the rain kept him from being blown away. Water was gurgling in the ground beneath him. Water was running up his sleeves, and down his neck. Water spouted on him as he beat away the folds to get air. A grand and ghastly fire was running across heaven. Shocks were striking the earth all around him. Another tree was blasted. Thunder broke out above in a long rippling crescendo of splitting cracks. That, and the pouring of a cataract into his face made him draw back the fold. He cowered. He had lost touch with Lionel. He did not know where Lionel was. His foot struck something hard. Groping down, hungry for companionship, he found that it was the broken tent-pole. Another gust lifted him. It gathered strength. It swept the folds from his hands and sent the edge flogging, flogging, flogging, with its lashes of rope and tent-pegs. The full fury of the storm was on him. The tent was bundling itself up into ruin against the boxes. He was sitting in wet mud assailed by every devil of bad weather. Lionel was by his side shouting into his ear. "Don't stand," came the far-away voice. "Get struck." He nodded when next the flames ran round. It seemed likely that he would be struck. It was a quick death, so people said. He found himself saying aloud that it would be terrible if Lionel were struck. What then? What would he do then? He craned round into the beating rain to try to get a glimpse of the bearers. He could see nothing but rain and that reddish running glimmer of living light.
He did not feel much. He was too cold, too weak, too frightened. If he had been able to define his feelings he would have said that he was thinking it impossible that he could ever have been dry, or warm, or happy. His old life was a far-off inconceivable dream. That he had ever sat by a fire seemed inconceivable. That there was such a thing as a sun seemed inconceivable. That life could be dignified, tender, or heroic seemed inconceivable. "If this isn't misery," he muttered, shaking, "I don't know what is. I don't know what is." He felt suddenly that water was running under him in a good strong stream, several inches deep. Putting his hand down, it slopped up to the wrist in a current. He groped with his hand. As he put it down some beetle in the water pinched him briskly, turning him sick for a moment with the memory of the snake which had struck his boot. Standing up hurriedly, the water rose above his boots. Looking up, an opening in the clouds shewed him the moon, a beaten swimmer in a mill-race. The storm was breaking.
Not long after that it broke. The stars came out. The wind ceased from her whirling about continually. She blew steady, in a brisk fresh gale, bringing up the clearing showers. The showers would have seemed torrents at other times, but to Roger, now, they were little drizzles. Lionel and he found a sort of cave in the tent. Part of the canvas had wedged itself under the pole. The rest had been blown across a pile of boxes on to the wall. Being supported now by those two uprights it roofed in a narrow shelter about five feet long. They crept into this shelter, dead beat from the cold. For a while they sat crouched close together, with chattering teeth. Then they drew a few folds of the canvas over them and lay still, trying to get warmth and sleep. They were not very sure that they would live to see the dawn. Roger thought vaguely of the bearers. He wondered what they had done, prompted by their knowledge of these storms. A dull, heavy, steady roaring noise seemed to be coming from the river. He wondered if the water had risen much, after all that torrential rain. Thinking vaguely of a flood, he wondered if the boat were safe. It seemed a long, long time since they had left the boat. He must have left the boat in some other life. The sun had been shining, he had been hot, he had passed through a glorious landscape. He had seen the peacocks of the Queen of Sheba jetting among flowers which were like burning precious stones. That was long ago. That was over forever. But yet he wondered vaguely about the boat. Was it safe, there in the broad?