The face of the river was tormented into a white fury by the drops which splashed up again a foot in height.

The lashing of the water on the bare backs of the negroes was distinctly audible to Victor Durnovo.
Then the black clouds split up like a rent cloth, and showed behind them, not Heaven, but the living fire of Hell.

The thunder crashed out in sharp reports like file-firing at a review.

With one accord the men ceased rowing and crouched down in the canoe.
Durnovo shouted to them, his face livid with fury.

But for some moments his voice was quite lost.