“Not so bad,” replied Ivanoff, who had crouched at the bottom of the boat.
Very soon the rain ceased, though the clouds had not dispersed, but were massed behind the woods where flashes of lighting could be seen at intervals.
“We ought to be getting back,” said Ivanoff.
“All right. I’m ready.”
They rowed out into the current. Black, heavy clouds hung overhead, and the flashes of lightning became incessant; white scimitars that smote the sullen sky. Though now it did not rain, a feeling of thunder was in the air. Birds with wet and ruffled plumage skimmed the surface of the river, while the trees loomed darkly against the blue-grey heavens.
“Ho! ho!” cried Ivanoff.
When they had landed and were plodding through the wet sand, the gloom became more intense.
“We’re in for it, now.”
Nearer, ever nearer to earth the huge cloud approached, like some dreadful grey-bellied monster. There was a sudden gust of wind, and leaves and dust were whirled round and round. Then, a deafening crash, as if the heavens were cleft asunder, when the lightning blazed and the thunder broke.
“Oho—ho—ho!” shouted Sanine, trying to outvie the clamour of the storm. But his voice, even to himself, was inaudible.