"No, certainly not. Everything is arranged. I cannot wait a day longer. My nerves seem all to rags!"—and she tried to laugh. The laugh turned into a shudder. "Was that thunder? I have a horror of a storm in a boat—all the iron about!" Phyllys had hoped that she would not notice. A change had developed after the brilliant day; and lurid cloud-masses covered the summits, broken by yellow streaks. "I don't like that. How long shall we be? An hour? More than an hour! Ask somebody if the storm will hold off so long. Find out—pray!" Phyllys went obediently, though aware that "somebody" was not likely to have positive information. She came back to her seat, remarking, "I dare say it won't be much." "What does Mr. Forsyth think?" "He says it looks rather threatening." They ploughed their way, zigzagging from side to side of the lake; and the cloud-capped heights grew more densely black. Another rumble sounded, winning a shiver from Mrs. Keith. "If it gets worse, I shall land. I won't be stopped." But for a while the storm held off; and when it broke, she seemed paralysed. The Niesen, always a prominent object, showed now no pyramidal form. From summit to base it was one mass of black vapours. From within that darkness rolled heavy reverberating peals, each louder and longer than the last, issuing with solemn echoes from the shrouding canopy. Thus far no lightning had been seen. The battle of forces was carried on behind a curtain. Then a dazzling double-forked arrow leaped forth, with a crashing roar, which drowned Mrs. Keith's scream. She clutched at Phyllys' wrist, holding it with a force which gave pain. Mr. Forsyth came to ask if she would go into the cabin, but she shook her head, moaning. "No, no! The boat may go down. We may all go down." Another resplendent flash, lighting up the scene with rose-colour; and another burst of heaven's artillery. Mrs. Keith hid her face, while Phyllys watched, fascinated. The black-clothed pyramid, the issuing sword-flashes, the rolling peals, had an impressive solemnity, which brought to mind the giving of the law from Mount Sinai in days of old. At a pause in the lengthened reverberations, she heard, "If only one could—!" Phyllys slipped an arm round her companion. "If one could live the past over again!" Should she say anything? But—what to say? "Phyllys,—if death came, would God have mercy? If one had not meant—" "Had not meant to do wrong?" "Yes. That is—had not intended. Circumstances sometimes—" "But circumstances never can 'make' one do wrong," the girl said staunchly. "In the past. I mean, in the past. One can't help the past." "One may confess and try to make amends." "Too long ago." "I don't think it can be too long." Phyllys thought of Zacchaeus coming to the Divine Giver of pardon, with "fourfold restitution" on his lips. Another dazzling sword of light; another echoing crash; and the reverberations rolled from mountain to mountain.