She spurred her broncho into the darkness lit by flashes of this lurid light.
A flash of light.
Then darkness, thick as purple velvet.
Furiously she urged the animal forward into this horrible unknown which had the look of the wrath of God come upon her for her doubting, pressed on by an innate feeling of affection for those two who had befriended her, hurrying to their aid, spurred by an instinctive foreboding of impending evil in this awful roaring, whirling, murderous sound of the wild winds gone suddenly stark mad.
As she sped on, something swept past her with a great hoarse roar, distinguishable above the deafening roar of the wind.
It was Seth's herd, stampeding, running with the wind and bellowing with fear.
She winged her way into the terror of the darkness.
Ready an hour before for death in any form, she now all at once found herself panting with fear of it, gasping with a deadly fear of a ghastly fate, of being crushed and mangled, of dying by inches beneath some horrible weight, but this did not deter her.
Afraid to breathe a prayer to the God whom she had dared to question, she winged her way breathlessly on and on.
Then sheets of water, as if the skies had opened and emptied themselves,—and a vivid flash of lightning revealing the wind's wet wings, its wild whirling fingers dripping.