He had. And soon showed his real feelings. Rain fell once
more. Instead of diminishing it grew more violent, accompanied by warm
blasts of wind. There was sunshine overhead, but the peaks were
shrouded in scudding vapours, trees bent under the force of the wind;
the sea, a welter of light and shade, was dappled with silvery patches
under the swiftly careering clouds. Soon there came a blinding
downpour. Gullies were blocked up with mud; rills carried tons of it
into the sea. Then the gale died down; the sun beamed out of a bright
evening sky. The miraculous shower was over.
Men walked abroad and recognized their beloved Nepenthe once more. It
glowed in the tenderest hues. The events of morning and midday were
like a bad dream. Everything sparkled with unaccustomed brilliance; the
land was refreshed--swept clean; the sea alone remained discoloured to a
dingy brown. Truly, as the Commissioner--once more a sound
Protestant--remarked in later years: "The old rotter came up to the
scratch that time.
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