The faint quiver in the air brought with it, as always, the rumble of the guns, but he believed that it was not a blended sound.
There was real thunder on the horizon, where the French lay, and then he saw a distant flash, not white like that of a searchlight, but like yellow lightning.

Rain, a storm perhaps, must be at hand.

He had read that nearly all the great battles in the civil war in his own country had been followed at once by violent storms of thunder, lightning and rain.

Then why not here, where immense artillery combats never ceased?
Near the end of the conservatory he paused and looked back at the house.
Every window was dark.

There must be light inside, but shutters were closed.