The large girl stirred once again. One brown arm stole from beneath the covers. The hand seemed to reach for some object hung in space.
“A barrel of gold.” Her lips said the words aloud. The sound of her own voice roused her to a state of half-awakeness. “A barrel of gold,” she repeated.
For some little time she lay there half asleep, half awake.
Her sleep had been disturbed by certain sounds, distant rumbles, rushes and swishes of water; also by those vivid flashes of light.
A moment more and she sat bolt upright in bed.
“Going to storm,” she mumbled to herself, without being greatly disturbed. It had stormed before. Three times great, dark clouds had come driving in across black waters to engulf them. Each time the wrecked Pilgrim, with her three last passengers on board, had weathered the storm in as stalwart a manner as any ship afloat on the sea.
For some time she sat there listening, watching. As the flashes of light grew brighter, more frequent, and the rumbles broke into short, sharp crashes, she crept silently from beneath the covers to draw on a heavy mackinaw, then step out upon the deck.
At once a cold chill seized her. A flash of lightning had revealed such a cloud as she had not seen in all her life. Inky black, straight up and down like a gigantic pillar, it appeared to glide across waters that reflected its ink-blackness and to grow—grow—grow as it advanced.
Stepping quickly back into the cabin, she shook her companions into wakefulness.
“Jeanne! Greta! Wake up! It is going to storm. Something rather terrible!”