“And a violent one, too,” added Paganel, “if I may judge by the look of things.”
“It is not the storm I care about,” said Glenarvan, “so much as the torrents of rain that will accompany it. We shall be soaked to the skin. Whatever you may say, Paganel, a nest won’t do for a man, and you will learn that soon, to your cost.”
“With the help of philosophy, it will,” replied Paganel.
“Philosophy! that won’t keep you from getting drenched.”
“No, but it will warm you.”
“Well,” said Glenarvan, “we had better go down to our friends, and advise them to wrap themselves up in their philosophy and their ponchos as tightly as possible, and above all, to lay in a stock of patience, for we shall need it before very long.”
Glenarvan gave a last glance at the angry sky. The clouds now covered it entirely; only a dim streak of light shone faintly in the west. A dark shadow lay on the water, and it could hardly be distinguished from the thick vapors above it. There was no sensation of light or sound. All was darkness and silence around.
“Let us go down,” said Glenarvan; “the thunder will soon burst over us.”
On returning to the bottom of the tree, they found themselves, to their great surprise, in a sort of dim twilight, produced by myriads of luminous specks which appeared buzzing confusedly over the surface of the water.
“It is phosphorescence, I suppose,” said Glenarvan.