was the rough cast of the thunder-bolt, one of those many 25
which the great Father showers down on earth from all
quarters of heaven—part was polished for use, part still
incomplete. Three spokes of frozen rain, three of watery
cloud had they put together, three of ruddy flame and
winged southern wind; and now they were blending with 30
what they had done the fearful flash, and the noise, and
the terror, and the fury of untiring fire. In another part
they were hurrying on for Mars the car and the flying
wheels, with which he rouses warriors to madness, aye,