As he sat, with his eyes on the peak he had just chosen from the rest as the loftiest of all within his sight, he saw a cloud begin to grow upon it.The cloud grew, and gathered, and descended, covering its sides as it went, until the whole was hidden.Then swiftly, as he gazed, the cloud opened as it were a round window in the heart of it, and through that he saw the peak again.The next moment a flash of blue lightning darted across the opening, and whether Gibbie really saw what follows, he never could be sure, but always after, as often as the vision returned, in the flash he saw a rock rolling down the peak.The clouds swept together, and the window closed.The next thing which in after years he remembered was, that the earth, mountains, meadows, and streams, had vanished;everything was gone from his sight, except a few yards around him of the rock upon which he sat, and the cloud that hid world and heaven.
Then again burst forth the lightning.He saw no flash, but an intense cloud-illumination, accompanied by the deafening crack, and followed by the appalling roar and roll of the thunder.Nor was it noise alone that surrounded him, for, as if he were in the heart and nest of the storm, the very wind-waves that made the thunder rushed in driven bellowing over him, and had nearly swept him away.He clung to the rock with hands and feet.The cloud writhed and wrought and billowed and eddied, with all the shapes of the wind, and seemed itself to be the furnace-womb in which the thunder was created.Was this then the voice into which the silence had been all the time deepening?--had the Presence thus taken form and declared itself? Gibbie had yet to learn that there is a deeper voice still into which such a silence may grow--and the silence not be broken.He was not dismayed.He had no conscience of wrong, and scarcely knew fear.It was an awful delight that filled his spirit.
Mount Sinai was not to him a terror.To him there was no wrath in the thunder any more than in the greeting of the dog that found him in his kennel.To him there was no being in the sky so righteous as to be more displeased than pitiful over the wrongness of the children whom he had not yet got taught their childhood.Gibbie sat calm, awe-ful, but, I imagine, with a clear forehead and smile-haunted mouth, while the storm roared and beat and flashed and ran about him.It was the very fountain of tempest.From the bare crest of the mountain the water poured down its sides, as if its springs were in the rock itself, and not in the bosom of the cloud above.The tumult at last seized Gibbie like an intoxication; he jumped to his feet, and danced and flung his arms about, as if he himself were the storm.But the uproar did not last long.Almost suddenly it was gone, as if, like a bird that had been flapping the ground in agony, it had at last recovered itself, and taken to its great wings and flown.The sun shone out clear, and in all the blue abyss not a cloud was to be seen, except far away to leeward, where one was spread like a banner in the lonely air, fleeting away, the ensign of the charging storm--bearing for its device a segment of the many-coloured bow.
And now that its fierceness was over, the jubilation in the softer voices of the storm became audible.As the soul gives thanks for the sufferings that are overpast, offering the love and faith and hope which the pain has stung into fresh life, so from the sides of the mountain ascended the noise of the waters the cloud had left behind.The sun had kept on his journey; the storm had been no disaster to him; and now he was a long way down the west, and Twilight, in her grey cloak, would soon be tracking him from the east, like sorrow dogging delight.Gibbie, wet and cold, began to think of the cottage where he had been so kindly received, of the friendly face of its mistress, and her care of the lamb.It was not that he wanted to eat.He did not even imagine more eating, for never in his life had he eaten twice of the same charity in the same day.What he wanted was to find some dry hole in the mountain, and sleep as near the cottage as he could.So he rose and set out.But he lost his way; came upon one precipice after another, down which only a creeping thing could have gone; was repeatedly turned aside by torrents and swampy places; and when the twilight came, was still wandering upon the mountain.At length he found, as he thought, the burn along whose bank he had ascended in the morning, and followed it towards the valley, looking out for the friendly cottage.But the first indication of abode he saw, was the wall of the grounds of the house through whose gate he had looked in the morning.He was then a long way from the cottage, and not far from the farm; and the best thing he could do was to find again the barn where he had slept so well the night before.This was not very difficult even in the dusky night.He skirted the wall, came to his first guide, found and crossed the valley-stream, and descended it until he thought he recognized the slope of clover down which he had run in the morning.
He ran up the brae, and there were the solemn cones of the corn-ricks between him and the sky! A minute more and he had crept through the cat-hole, and was feeling about in the dark barn.
Happily the heap of straw was not yet removed.Gibbie shot into it like a mole, and burrowed to the very centre, there coiled himself up, and imagined himself lying in the heart of the rock on which he sat during the storm, and listening to the thunder winds over his head.The fancy enticed the sleep which before was ready enough to come, and he was soon far stiller than Ariel in the cloven pine of Sycorax.
