During the rest of the afternoon and all night long the fall was
incessant, accompanied by a cold, panting, wailing southwest wind.
Beverley lay on the ground, face upward, the rawhide strings
torturing his limbs, the chill of cold water searching his bones.
He could see nothing but the dim, strange canopy of flying rain,
against which the bare boughs of the scrub oaks were vaguely
outlined; he could hear nothing but the cry of the wind and the
swash of the water which fell upon him and ran under him, bubbling
and gurgling as if fiendishly exultant.
The night dragged on through its terrible length, dealing out its
indescribable horrors, and at last morning arrived, with a stingy
and uncertain gift of light slowly increasing until the dripping
trees appeared forlornly gray and brown against clouds now
breaking into masses that gave but little rain.
Beverley lived through the awful trial and even had the hardihood
to brighten inwardly with the first flash of sunlight that shot
through a cloud-crack on the eastern horizon. He thought of Alice,
as he had done all night; but now the thought partook somehow of
the glow yonder above old Vincennes, although he could only see
its reflection.
There was great stir among the Indians. Long-Hair stalked about
scrutinizing the ground. Beverley saw him come near time and again
with a hideous, inquiring scowl on his face.
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