He roused himself and saw that the whole face of the sky had altered.

The clouds that had hung motionless all day were moving from their stations, and getting into position, as it were, for a battle.

The wind was rising; the sallow vapors were turning dark and consolidating their masses.

It was a striking spectacle, but Rowland judged best to observe it briefly, as a storm was evidently imminent.

He took his way down to the inn and found Singleton still at his post, profiting by the last of the rapidly-failing light to finish his study, and yet at the same time taking rapid notes of the actual condition of the clouds.
"We are going to have a most interesting storm," the little painter gleefully cried.