It lashed the waters of the river to a gleaming white beneath the moon.

And all the while the clouds stood hard and sharp of outline in the sky.

They hardly seemed to move towards the moon.

They scarcely changed their shape from hour to hour.

This was not a wind of heaven, but a current rushing down from the Pyrenees to replace the hot air rising from the plains of Aragon.
Nevertheless, the clouds were moving towards the moon, and must soon hide it.