Oh, what numbers of the horrible great grey creatures we used to see floating down with the stream or lying about the banks! Some of them had taken up their abode quite near to us, along the side of our island, just where we used to do our fishing with the gun-cotton, but their being close to us did not prevent either the coolies, or for the matter of that the whites, from going into the river. With sunset came the hour of supper or dinner, and what grand sky effects we used to see whilst we were at that meal in these winter quarters of ours! Our walls were flecked with every colour of the rainbow, whilst in the east, above the sombre wooded banks, would often rise red masses of curious-looking clouds, precursors of the approaching tornado. Sometimes the sun had not quite set before the lightning would begin to flash, and the thunder to roll incessantly, sounding like the roar of artillery in battle. As we sat at table we would discuss the situation: what would the tornado do this time? Would our huts be able to bear up against it? Would much water come in? “Make haste, Fili, bring us that _nougat_ before it rains!” said Bluzet. And were the barges securely moored? Had the sentry got his cloak? and so on. [Illustration: A WOMAN OF SAY.] Father Hacquart became as time went on, quite an expert meteorologist, and only once or twice made a mistake in his predictions about the weather. The terrible arch of clouds peculiar to a tornado, meanwhile, goes up and up till it nearly reaches the zenith. Behind it in the east is a great glow of light, resembling the reflection of a conflagration in the big plate-glass windows of some shop on the Paris boulevards seen through the rain. We all disperse now, going to our huts to light our candles, whilst the rain pours down in torrents, and the leaves are torn from the trees and whirled round and round. The branches are creaking, the roofs are bending beneath the fury of the storm, the rain turns to hail, and through the great sabbat of the elements, the voices of the sentries are heard calling out from beneath the deluge pouring down upon them, “Is all well?” and the reply comes soon, “All is well.” Then when the worst seems to be over, we go to examine how much damage is done, and Father Hacquart comes out to have one more look at the weather. Presently we hear some one growling out that the rain has come through his roof like a thief in the night, or that it is pouring over his threshold. We all laugh together, for we are all in the same boat. Fortunately the damage done is seldom greater than this, for the huts stand the strain well. We only once had to deplore a real misfortune, and that not a very serious one, only it made us fear that a worse might happen.