Down the river, floating onward,
Ever onward, to the sea.
So he sang in his clear, resonant voice, while behind the trees the sound of girlish laughter could still be heard. Ivanoff looked at the sky.
“It’s going to rain,” he said.
The trees had become darker, and a deep shadow passed swiftly across the meadow.
“We shall have to run for it!”
“Where? There’s no escape, now,” cried Sanine cheerfully.
Overhead a leaden-hued cloud floated nearer and nearer. There was no wind; the stillness and gloom had increased.
“We shall get soaked to the skin,” said Ivanoff, “so do give me a cigarette, to console me.”
Faintly the little yellow flame of the match flickered in the gloom. A sudden gust of wind swept it away. One big drop of rain splashed the boat, and another fell on to Sanine’s brow. Then came the downpour. Pattering on the leaves, the rain hissed as it touched the surface of the water. All in a moment from the dark heaven it fell in torrents, and only the rush and the splash of it could be heard.
“Nice, isn’t it?” said Sanine, moving his shoulders to which his wet shirt was sticking.