“Put on your storm-cloaks immediately,” ordered Dragonfel. “I want you to come with me to Vulcan’s.”
“It’s a terrible night to be out, kind master,” ventured Grouthead, with a shudder.
There came a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder more terrifying than any that had gone before.
“What’s the matter with the night?” snapped Dragonfel. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. I call this particularly pleasant weather.”
“Yes, it’s all right now,” Grouthead hastened to say.
So in their long, flowing cloaks they all sloshed out in the wind and rain, while the hearts of those who followed after the enchanter quaked and quailed as they plunged on through the pitch-black darkness of the night.
The wind howled and shrieked with increasing fury, the lightning grew sharper, and the peals of thunder more deafening, so that their eyes were nearly blinded, and their ear-drums rang.
Now not so very far from Dragonfel’s palace Vulcan whom they had set forth to see had his cavern.
It was a very modest establishment indeed, considering the prodigious results that he achieved, and the wonder was that in such cramped quarters, and with so few to aid him in his work, he could do as much as he did.
The cavern was down by the sea, in among huge rocks and boulders, and over the door, in very modest lettering, was the business sign: Vulcan God of Fire.