The storm had not broken, but seemed holding back its forces for one mighty onslaught upon the world.

The thunder was repressed, and the lightning held in leash, with escaping flashes of it occasionally betraying the impending ambuscades of the sky.
The clearing itself was a blot of stygian darkness, with a yellow patch of light in the center of it--the window of the Missioner's cabin.

And Jolly Roger stood looking at it for a space, as a carven thing of rock might have stared.

His heart was dead.

His soul crushed.