Storm whipping a man's blood into fire and energy--biting his brain into relentless activity!--there was a thing for you.
Whiskey did not help.

Last night it had treacherously magnified the voice of conscience into a gibing roar.
Money! Money! The ray of the lamps ahead, the fork of the lightning, the flickering gaslight there at the crossroads, they were all the color of gold and like gold--of a flame that burned.

Yes, he must have money.

No matter what the voice, he must have money.
At the crossroads he halted suddenly.

To the south now lay his cousin's camp, to the north the storm.
Perversely Carl wheeled about and drove to the north.