Then he came slowly back, and resumed his seat. It was growing very dark, though they had not noticed it; for the thunder-shower had been hurrying on, and already its advanced guard of wind, heavy laden with the smell of the rain, could be heard, and a few large drops splashed on the window. The beautiful wife of the doctor laughed merrily to watch the growing discomposure of the visitor, who returned the bonnet, with undiminished courtesy, but with obvious constraint of manner. He looked down; he drummed on the table; he looked up; and both the doctor and the doctor’s wife were startled at the intense sudden anger in the dark, handsome face. Then he sprang up, and went to the window. He looked out a moment, and then said-- “Upon my word, that is going to be a very sharp squall! The clouds are _very_ heavy. If I’m any judge, something will be struck. I can feel the electricity in the air.” While he still spoke, the first thunder-bolt crashed overhead. It was one of those close, sudden, overpoweringly awful explosions from clouds very heavy and very near, where the lightning and the thunder leap together out of the very air close about you, even as if you were in them. It was an unendurable burst of sound, and of the intense white sheety light of very near lightning. Dreadfully frightened, the poor little lady clung close to her husband. He, poor man, if possible yet more frightened, exhausted as he was by what he had been enduring, fainted dead away. Don’t blame him: a cast-iron bull-dog might have fainted. Mrs. Hicok, thinking that her husband was struck dead by the lightning, screamed terribly. Then she touched him; and, seeing what was really the matter, administered cold water from the pitcher on the table. Shortly he revived. “Where is he?” he said. “I don’t know, love. I thought you were dead. He must have gone away. Did it strike the house?” “Gone away? Thank God! Thank _you_, dear!” cried out the doctor. Not knowing any adequate cause for so much emotion, she answered him-- “Now, love, don’t you ever say women are not practical again. That was a practical question, you see. But didn’t it strike the house? What a queer smell. Ozone: isn’t that what you were telling me about? How funny, that lightning should have a smell!” “I believe there’s no doubt of it,” observed Dr. Hicok. Mr. Apollo Lyon had really gone, though just how or when, nobody could say. “My dear,” said Dr. Hicok, “I do so like that bonnet of yours! I don’t wonder it puzzled him. It would puzzle the Devil himself. I firmly believe I shall call it your Devil-puzzler.” But he never told her what the puzzle had been. THE DEVIL’S ROUND[20] A TALE OF FLEMISH GOLF BY CHARLES DEULIN [20] From _Longman’s Magazine_, vol. xiv. [Copyright 1889 by Longmans, Green & Co., London & New York. By permission of the Publishers.]