"Nay, man, 'tis a live, ragin' storm comed off the sea an' tearin' ower the
airth like a legion out o' hell! 'Tis the floodgates o' God opened you'm
hearin'! Ay, an' the four winds at each other's throats, an' a outburst o'
all the springs 'pon the hills! 'Tis death and ruin for the whole
country-side as be yelling up-long now. An' 'tis comin' faster'n thot."
As Bartlett spoke, the voice of the tempest grew rapidly nearer, all
mystery faded out of it and its murmuring changed to a hoarse rattle.
Thunder growled a bass to the shriek of coming winds and a flash of distant
lightning bridged the head of the coomb with a crooked snake of fire.
"Us'd best to get 'pon high land out o' this," shouted Bartlett. "All as
men can do us have done. The hay's in the hand o' Providence, but I
wouldn't be perched on top o' that stack not for diamonds all the same."
A cry cut him short. Mary had turned and found the way to higher ground
already cut off. The lake was rising under their eyes, and that in spite of
the fact that the waters had already reached the trench cut for them, and
now tumbled in a torrent back to the parent stream. Escape in this
direction was clearly impossible. It only remained to wade through the head
of the lake, and that without a moment's delay. Mary herself, holding a
torch, went first through water above her knees and the men hastily
followed, Uncle Chirgwin coming last and being nearly carried off his short
legs as he turned to view the rick.
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