Overhead the clouds, of a blue-black intensity, seemed almost to
touch the trees; the river was of ink. The rowers said nothing, but
they lingered on the bank and watched Durnovo's face anxiously.
When he took his seat in the canoe they looked protestingly up to
the sky. Durnovo said something to them rapidly, and they laid
their paddles to the water.
Scarcely had the boat disappeared in the bend of the river before
the rain broke. It came with the rush of an express train--the
trees bending before the squall like reeds. The face of the river
was tormented into a white fury by the drops which splashed up again
a foot in height. The lashing of the water on the bare backs of the
negroes was distinctly audible to Victor Durnovo.
Then the black clouds split up like a rent cloth, and showed behind
them, not Heaven, but the living fire of Hell. The thunder crashed
out in sharp reports like file-firing at a review. With one accord
the men ceased rowing and crouched down in the canoe.
Durnovo shouted to them, his face livid with fury. But for some
moments his voice was quite lost. The lightning ran over the face
of the river like will-o'-the-wisps; the whole heaven was streaked
continuously with it.
Suddenly the negroes leaped to their paddles and rowed with bent
back, and wild staring eyes, as if possessed.
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