Another interval, and the driving downpour no longer struck even the edge of the opening. The wind was veering rapidly as the cyclone centre moved past on one side. The area of the hurricane was little more than thrice that of a tornado, and it was advancing along its course at great speed. An hour more, and the outermost rim of the huge whirl was passing over the cleft.
Quickly the hurricane gusts fell away to a gale; the gale became a breeze; the breeze lulled and died away, stifled by the torrential rain.
Within the baobab all was again dark and silent. Utterly exhausted, the girl had sunk back against the friendly wall of the tree, and fallen asleep.
She was wakened by a hoarse call: “Miss Jenny! Miss Jenny, answer me! Are you all right?”
She started up, barely saving herself from a fall as the big unhusked nuts rolled beneath her feet. The morning sunlight was streaming in over her door. She sprang down ankle-deep into the mire of the cave floor, and ran to loosen the bars. As the door swung up, she darted out, with a cry of delight: “You are safe–safe! Oh, I was so afraid for you! But you’re drenched! You must build a fire–dry yourself–at once!”
“Wait,” said Blake. “I’ve got to tell you something.”
He caught her outstretched hands, and pushed them down with gentle force. His face was grave, almost solemn.
“Think you can stand bad news–a shock?”
“I– What is it? You look so strange!”
“It’s about Winthrope,–something very bad–”