West or east, south or north--it was all one to him. The few
heavy drops that fell boiling into the dust ceased to come; the rain
withheld while the wind-kings rode on earth. On he went in spite of them.
On and on, running blindly when he could run at all. At least, the wind-
kings were company. He had been so long alone. He could remember no home
that had ever been his since he was a little child, neither father nor
mother, no one who belonged to him or to whom he belonged, except one
cousin, an old man who was dead. For a day his dreams had found in a
girl's eyes the precious thing that is called home--oh, the wild fancy! He
laughed aloud.
There was a startling answer; a lance of living fire hurled from the sky,
riving the fields before his eyes, while crash on crash of artillery
numbed his ears. With that his common-sense awoke and he looked about him.
He was almost two miles from town; the nearest house was the Briscoes' far
down the road. He knew the rain would come now. There was a big oak near
him at the roadside. He stepped under its sheltering branches and leaned
against the great trunk, wiping the perspiration and dust from his face. A
moment of stunned quiet had succeeded the peal of thunder. It was followed
by several moments of incessant lightning that played along the road and
danced in the fields.
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