MISTRESS FAWCETT. To strangle you with a horse-hair pie! Your obeah charlatans are grovelling in their cellars. Only our courage and our two hands can save us to-day. Come! (Beating the floor with her crutch.) A hundred man slaves on the estate, and not one to help us save the house! Are my daughter and I to do it all? Get up! (She menaces them with her crutch.) THE SLAVES (not moving). Oh, mistress! [Enter RACHAEL. She walks to the open window and looks out.] MISTRESS FAWCETT. Close the windows, Rachael. I cannot. And those creatures are empty skulls. RACHAEL. In a moment. MISTRESS FAWCETT. In a moment? Open your ears. Do you want to see the roof racing with the wind?' RACHAEL. The hurricane is still miles away. MISTRESS FAWCETT. Great God! How can you stand there and wait for a hurricane? Do you realize that an hour, if this old house be not strong enough, may see us struggling out in those roaring waters? These desolate afflicted Caribbees! They have tested my courage many times, and I can go through this without flinching; but I cannot stand that unnatural calm of yours. RACHAEL. Do I seem calm? (She closes and bars the window.) It is a fine sight. We may never have such another. MISTRESS FAWCETT. Nor live to know. RACHAEL (her back is still turned, as she shakes and tests the window). Well, what of that? Are you so in love with life? MISTRESS FAWCETT. Even at sixty I am in no haste to be blown out of it. And if I were twenty-- RACHAEL (turning suddenly, and facing her mother). At twenty, with forty years of nothingness before you, cut off from all the joy of life, on an island in the Caribbean Sea, what then? (She snaps her fingers.) That for the worst a hurricane can do! MISTRESS FAWCETT (uneasily). Do not let us talk of personal things to-day. RACHAEL. I never felt more personal. MISTRESS FAWCETT (looking at her keenly). I believe you are excited. RACHAEL (she clinches her hands and brings them up sharply to her breast). Excited! Call it that if you like. All my life I have longed for the hurricane, and now I feel as if it were coming to me alone. MISTRESS FAWCETT (evasively). I do not always understand you, Rachel. You are a strange girl. RACHAEL (bursting through her assumed composure). Strange? Because I long to feel the mountain shaken, as I have been shaken through four terrible weeks? Because I long to hear the wind roar and shriek its derision of man, make his quaking soul forget every law he ever knew, stamp upon him, grind him to pulp-- MISTRESS FAWCETT. Hush! What are you saying? I do not know you--"the ice-plant of the tropics," indeed! The electricity of this hurricane has bewitched you.