He does not believe, of course, in those "spirits of the storm," about whom he has so often written, any more than he does in a great deal of his fine imagery; but still in such characters as his, the sympathy between the moods of nature and those of the mind is most real and important; and Dame Nature's equinoctial night wrath is weird, gruesome, crushing, and can be faced (if it must be faced) in real comfort only when one is going on an errand of mercy, with a clear conscience, a light heart, a good cigar, and plenty of Mackintosh.
So, ere Elsley had gone a quarter of a mile, he turned back, and resolved to go in, and take up his book once more.

Perhaps Lucia might beg his pardon; and if not, why, perhaps he might beg hers.

The rain was washing the spirit out of him, as it does out of a thin-coated horse.
Stay! What was that sound above the roar of the gale?
a cannon?
He listened, turning his head right and left to escape the howling of the wind in his ears.

A minute, and another boom rose and rang aloft.
It was near, too.

He almost fancied that he felt the concussion of the air.
Another, and another; and then, in the village below, he could see lights hurrying to and fro.