"Neither of you will ever regret tonight's experience—when it is nicely over," he said. "You are like a couple of recruits in their first battle."
"I am sure—" began Enid.
A huge wave, containing several hundred tons of water, smote the lighthouse, and cavorted over their heads. The house that was founded upon a rock fell not, but it shook through all its iron-bound tiers, and the empty cups danced on their saucers.
Not another word could Enid utter. She was paralyzed.
"That fellow—arrived—in the nick of time—to emphasize my remarks," said Brand, lighting his pipe. "This is your baptism of fire, if I may strain a metaphor. But you are far better situated than the soldier. He gets scared out of his wits by big guns which are comparatively harmless, and when he has been well pounded for an hour or so, he advances quite blithely to meet the almost silent hail of dangerous bullets. So, you see, in his case, ignorance is bliss."
"Are we in bliss?" demanded Constance.
"You have been. The lighthouse has out-faced a hurricane such as has not visited England before in my life-time. It is over. The wind has dropped to a No. 10 gale, and we have not lost even a bit of skin to my knowledge. Now the cannonade is beginning. Certainly, we may have the glass broken, by a rare accident, but no worse fate can befall us."
A heavy thud was followed by a deluge without. They heard the water pouring off the gallery.
Constance leaned forward, with hands on knees. Her large eyes looked into his.
"This time, dad, you are not choosing your words," she said.