His eyes narrowed in relentless hate, Durkin swung about and went striding toward the house. Despite his rage he experienced a fierce, secret gratification in knowing he'd had the foresight to cut and trim a stout birch switch well in advance. Perhaps it was intended by something in the mysterious, hidden texture of nature itself that Will Durkin should reach the house before the first blast came. Perhaps fury kindled and unleashed by a puny man in a moment of cataclysmic upheaval had an energy pattern of its own, capable of blending with that greater violence, and carrying its victim to disaster, precisely as a tiny squirming creature of the sea might be lifted up and carried on the back of a terrified tortoise. Be that as it may, Durkin was well inside the house, crossing the kitchen to the living room when light flashed all about him, and a chill wind brushed the nape of his neck. His lips tightened, but for an instant he continued on, as if refusing to believe that a mere rumbling and quaking could prevent him from climbing a narrow flight of stairs, and returning to the yard with a cruel instrument of retribution in his clasp. Then, abruptly, panic overcame him. Shock after shock shook the house, jarring up through him, threatening to pitch him off his feet. But even as he swung about in wild terror he could not quite relinquish what he had set out to do. One part of his mind remained filled with choking rage, and his hands were busy at his waist, unbuckling his cowhide belt and ripping it free. At least he'd give his stepson a hiding-- Suddenly through the kitchen door he caught a brief glimpse of the children, standing in the yard. They were clinging to their mother, but they were as yet untouched by the violence which was raging all about them. Durkin's jaw fell open. The violence increased with appalling suddenness, breaking every window in the house, filling the kitchen with blowing dust. With a deafening roar the house vanished, carrying Durkin with it. The children cried out in bewilderment and fright, and pressed closer to their mother. In every upheaval, no matter how violent, there may well be pockets of erratically channeled calm, regions of security which remain untouched by the turbulence surrounding them. Helen Durkin clung resolutely to an assurance which nothing could shake, and with her conviction that the children would not be harmed went a warm gratefulness that they had turned to her for comfort and protection. She stood staring straight ahead, refusing to be dismayed, hearing only a dreadful humming sound which gradually died away. Where the house had stood there spread only a smooth expanse of yellow sand. The whirling was like nothing Durkin had ever known before. It constricted his chest, blurred his vision, and drove the blood in torrents from his heart. There was no stopping it, and as it grew steadily more intolerable he tore at his collar, swayed, and went down on his hands and knees.