Reader, have you ever taken note of the signs of a heavy African thunder storm coming on? Have you felt the awful depressing heat, which seems to make the heart feel too faint and languid to beat? Have you noted the awesome, mysterious twilight that seems to settle over the earth? A moment everything appears to be alive and joyous; birds are singing, cattle bellowing, all nature murmurs a pæan of gladness for _life_. In another moment everything seems to hide itself and hush its breath. Not a murmur is heard, not a leaf rustles, not a breath of wind is felt. It is the calm before the storm. Now the suspense seems to be agonising; it gets darker and darker. Suddenly the leaves seem to rustle out of very fear, as if they longed to break the silence, for they rustle, and yet not a breath of wind is felt. Then gradually you hear an ever-increasing roar at a distance. My God! what a crash is that! It is the first clap of thunder that breaks over your head, seeming to strike near you, all around you; you feel that you are not safe, you long for shelter, for company, for somebody to share your terror. Such a thunder storm seems to make cowards of the bravest. It is an invisible enemy; an irresistible danger seems to threaten you, to surround you, to search you out, hide where you will. If you never prayed before, you feel as if you would like to pray now. Deny it if you will, hide it if you might, look as brave as you can, yet I tell you you _do_ feel awed when the thunder of heaven seems to speak to you with the voice of an angry God.
After that first clap, the silence is broken, the storm is on you. Clap after clap of thunder strikes around you. The lightning seems to blind you. The trees bend to the ground before the great force of rushing air, and those that will not bend must break, and come crashing down, crushing everything underneath them, and obstructing the paths and roads.
The rain seems to come down, not in drops, nor in sheets either, but in one continuous mass. You can hardly draw your breath because of the wind and rain; and in a moment you find yourself wading in six inches, ten inches, twelve inches of water on the level plain. Woe to the flock of sheep that finds itself in the least hollow or depression between two butts or rises of the rolling plain. They are drowned where a few moments before they stood on dry veld, seemingly safe against any flood. Such was the storm our friends found themselves in now. They could do nothing but pull their hats over their eyes and plod and wade wearily along. Wet to the skin in a moment, their clothes clinging most uncomfortably to them, the house seeming to recede farther and farther away as they struggled on; even the much-prized buck which Theron had shot was dropped and left lying in the veld. Their only desire was to get home; to get at least a roof between themselves and this terrible thunder.