Mark dragged the chest to the bed-side, and put the lantern on it, and a box of matches handy. The matchlock was hung up; the teapot and mugs and things put away, and the spear and bow and knobstick arranged for instant use. Bevis let down the carpet at the doorway, and it shut out the moonlight like a curtain. They took off their boots and got on the bed with their clothes on. Just as Bevis was about to blow out the candle, he remembered something.
“Mark—Lieutenant, how’s the barometer?”
“Went down in the ship, sir.”
“How’s the weather then? Look out and see if a tornado’s brewing.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
Mark stepped under the curtain, looked round, and came in again.
“Sky’s clear,” he said. “Only the moon and a little shooting star, a very little one, a mere flicker just like striking a lucifer when it doesn’t light.”
“Streak of light on the wall.”
“Yes.”
“No tornado?”