They were suddenly and rudely awakened from this state of quiescence by a blinding flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a tremendous clap of thunder which sounded like colliding worlds overhead, and then rolled away in deep mutterings of discontent. This was repeated at short intervals, then the rain and hail came down in torrents, and the wind rose so that soon the waves began to beat violently on the house. The day which had begun so calmly ended in furious storm—emblematic of many a day in every human life.
Seated there with feelings of awe and anxiety, the Ravenshaw household passed the night in silence.
And still the waters of the Red River continued to rise—slowly, it is true, and inch by inch instead of foot by foot—until these settlers in the great wilderness began to think, with something akin to superstitious fear, of that mighty deluge which had been sent to submerge the world in the days of old.
Chapter Eighteen.
Old Ravenshaw goes Exploring and Rescuing.
Another fine calm day came to comfort the victims of the flood in the midst of that tempestuous time, with its April character of mingled storm and sunshine. The rise in the water on the previous night had been almost imperceptible. Feeling, therefore, somewhat easier in his mind, old Mr Ravenshaw determined to embark in his boat for the purpose of paying a visit to those unfortunates who, after being driven from their homes, had taken refuge on the imperceptible eminence which had been styled “The Mountain.” Taking with him Lambert and a stout crew, he embarked from his upper bedroom window, bade his wife and daughters an affectionate adieu, hoisted his sail, and pushed off.
The hoisting of the sail was a mere matter of form.
“It’s of no use at present, but will be ready to catch the first puff that may favour us,” observed the old gentleman, as he sat down and took the tiller. “Give way, lads.”