The day was one of elemental unrest and the clouds rolled tumultuous. They unrolled great planes of shifting gloom and splendour, of accidents of vapour that concealed and of light that illumined. But at mid-day a mighty shadow ascended against the wind and thunder rumbled along the edges of the Moor. The storm-centre spun about a mile off, then it drove in chariots of darkness over Sheep’s Tor. At this moment Bartley remembered the Pixies’ House, and, hastening sure-footed over the wild concourse of stones that extended around it, he approached the crevice where it lay. A woman suddenly caught his eye, and as the breaking storm now promised to be terrific, he called to her and, turning back, joined her. It proved to be Rhoda Bowden on her way home, and she accepted Bartley’s offer of shelter. "Something pretty bad’s coming," she said. "Be the Pixies’ House large enough for the both of us? I’ve got a bit of news you’ll be surprised to hear." "Full large enough--quick--quick--down through there--let me have your hand." But she accepted no help and soon crawled through the aperture into shelter. Then Bartley, taking two caps off the nipples of his gun, thrust it in after Rhoda and followed swiftly to avoid the onset of the storm. They had acted with utmost speed and Rhoda was now aghast to find the exceeding propinquity of Mr. Crocker. He could hardly have been closer. She moved uneasily. It occurred to her that he ought to have surrendered the Pixies’ House to her and himself found shelter elsewhere. The idea, however, had not struck him. "Can’t you make a little more room?" she asked, breathing rather hard. "I wish I could, but it’s impossible. I forgot you were such a jolly big girl," he answered. She set her teeth and waited for the outer darkness to lighten. The thunder roared and exploded in a rattle overhead; they heard the hiss and hurtle of the ice and water; while at intervals the entrance of their shelter was splashed along its rough edges with glare of lightning. "Better here than outside," said Bartley; but Rhoda began to doubt it. It seemed to her that he came nearer and nearer. At last she asked him to get out and let her pass. "Can’t stand this no more," she said, "I’m being choked. I’d sooner suffer the storm than this." "You don’t want to go out, surely!" "Yes, I do." The lightning showed him her face very close to his, and he saw her round cheek, lovely ear and bright, hard eyes with a wild look in them, like something caught in a trap. The storm shouted to the hills and cried savagely against the granite precipices; it leapt over the open heaths and roared into the coombes and valleys. The waste was all a dancing whiteness of hail, jewelled ever and anon by the lightning. Already the heart of conflict had passed and it grew lighter to rearward. "You must wait a bit yet. Your people would never forgive me if I let you go into this."