At this moment a louder roar than hitherto proclaimed the cloud’s approach, and a pall of darkness covered the sea. The effect was memorable. A second picture graved itself on observant minds. To the east, stretching out interminably on one side, lay the sea, chopping and black as ink. To the west, the land, sun-clad, extended broad and limitless. Hope and Despair, Life and Death, were keeping tryst at the brink of ocean. But not for long. Suddenly a jagged light gashed the heavens, and, with a terrific detonation, a ball of fire fell to earth. A great oak on the margin of the forest crashed and lurched forward, its huge branches splashing in the sea. The spray, as it fell, leaped up and wetted the pinnace, a few cold drops sprinkling the face of Ananias Dare. With a groan the assistant sank down, cowering, to the deck. Again and again the lightning flashed on every side, jaggedly tearing the sky as though against its weave. Yet, as the sea had not responded with a burst of wrath, but only writhed slowly, as if in pain too great for utterance, the barges forged ahead with steady progress toward their goal. Fortunately, there was but little wind. Merely a summer thunder-storm had broken over them, the like of which they had never seen in England. The rowers persisted stubbornly in their cumbrous crafts, while Dyonis gripped the pinnace’s helm with phlegmatic pertinacity and looked only toward Croatan. Near Dyonis, in the stern, sat Eleanor, her protecting arm and cloak around Virginia, who, curiously enough, peered out at the storm with not a trace of childish fear. Vytal, Marlowe, and Manteo still stood in the bow, the former now and again calling orders to their steersman, while Ananias, crouching, looked landward over the gunwale. Still the long line of boats pushed on like a school of whales, Hugh Rouse and Prat bringing up the rear with a barge-load of ordnance. “There it goes, there it goes again,” said Roger, rowing for dear life. “’Tis worse than a Spanish bombardment. I’ faith, midget, I am tempted to shoot back. What say you?” and his heavy panting drowned the sound of a low chuckle. “Madman, row!” roared Hugh, “row, an you want not a watery grave this minute!” “Watery?” said Prat. “Damnable fiery, I call it. Our well-merited brimstone boils early.” He broke off, puffing, and looked over his shoulder down into the bow with much difficulty, owing to the shortness of his neck. “O your Majesty, ’tis an unfortunate hap, yet I pray you, sire, rest easy.” The bear, crouching in the bow, poked his snout forward under Roger’s arm. “_He_ is not forever setting me to work,” muttered Prat. “Nay, nor me on edge by fleering raillery.” “On edge!” cried Roger. “’Tis timely spoke. On edge, eh? Body o’ me! look sharp, manikin! ’Tis the barge we set on edge; see there!”