But Tregagle caan't never do that; so he
cries bitter sometimes, an' howls; an' when 'e howls you knaw the storm's a
comin' to scatter the truss o' sand he's builded up."
Barron followed the legend with interest. Tregagle and his victim and the
charm of the pure child that saved one from the other filled his thought
and the event to which Fate was now relentlessly dragging him. He argued
with himself a little; then the rain came down and the wind leaped like a
lion over the edge of the land, and the man's blood boiled as he breathed
ocean air.
"Us'll be wetted proper. I'll run for it, Mister Jan, an' you'd best to go
up-long to your lil lew house. Wet's bad for 'e, I reckon."
"No," he said, "I can't let you go, Joan. Look over there. Another flood is
going to burst, I think. Follow me quickly, quickly."
The rain came slanting over the gorse in earnest, but Joan hesitated and
hung back. Louder than the wind, louder than the cry of the birds, than the
howling of Tregagle, than the calling of the cleeves, spoke something. And
it said "Turn, on the wing of the storm; fly before it, alone. Let this man
walk in the teeth of the gale if he will; but you, Joan Tregenza, follow
the wind and set your face to the east, where the sole brightness now left
in the sky is shining."
Sheets of gray swept over them; the world was wet in an instant; a little
mist of water splashed up two inches high off the ground; the gorse tossed
and swayed its tough arms; the sea and the struggling craft upon it
vanished like a dream; from the heart of the storm cried gulls, themselves
invisible.
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