Nor was it noise alone that surrounded him, for, as if he were in the heart and nest of the storm, the very wind-waves that made the thunder rushed in driven bellowing over him, and had nearly swept him away.

He clung to the rock with hands and feet.

The cloud writhed and wrought and billowed and eddied, with all the shapes of the wind, and seemed itself to be the furnace-womb in which the thunder was created.

Was this then the voice into which the silence had been all the time deepening ?--had the Presence thus taken form and declared itself?
Gibbie had yet to learn that there is a deeper voice still into which such a silence may grow--and the silence not be broken.

He was not dismayed.