“Quick,” he cried indicating it. And they set off at a run.
They weren’t a moment too soon. They had barely reached it, when the sky, seen through the opening of the shed, became a sea of white light, through which tore a blinding zig-zag, a veritable river of fire; a reverberating crash broke above them. And then the rain came down. It fell like bullets on the iron roof of the shed, deafening, terrifying. The wind tore with insensate fury at the wooden walls, rushed through the opening in a swirl of madness, lashing the rain before it.
“Oh, Tony!” cried Rosamund. And she hid her face in her hands.
John saw the gesture, though the words were lost in the deafening noise around them.
Wisdom, prudence, waiting, fled out into the storm, escaped on the wings of the gale.
He caught her hands in his.
What he said was as lost as her own cry. But, after all, perhaps there was no need to hear the words.
CHAPTER XLVII
AFTER THE RAIN
“It really was a providential storm,” said John.
The clouds had broken; the rain, though still falling, was descending in a silver shower, sparkling in sunlight. The wind had sunk to a cool fresh breeze.