Fortunately for those who fought the storm, the temperature had fallen with the barometer, and these two dared not relax their vigilance for a moment.  Every negro had deserted to the lower region.  Alexander was unable to change his wet clothes or to refresh himself with so much as a banana, but there was not a second’s time to think of hunger or discomfort.  More than once that sense of wild exultation in fighting a mighty element possessed him.  His own weak hands and a woman’s weaker against one of the Titanic hurricanes of the world’s history, with a prospect of winning the fight, was a sight to move comfortable gods to paean or laughter, according to their spiritual development.

But during much of that terrible day and night Alexander’s brain was obliged to work on device after device to strengthen those battered boards which alone protected the house from destruction, its inmates, perhaps, from death.  A tamarind tree came down on a corner of the roof with a crash; and when Mrs. Mitchell and Alexander reached the room, which was in a wing, the rain was struggling past the heavy mass through a hole in the roof.  They closed up the room, as well as the jalousies of the inner walls, but as they returned to the windows they heard the rain fighting to pass the branches, and knew that if the wind snatched the tree, the deluge would come in.

Mrs. Mitchell neither fainted again nor exhibited other sign of fear.  While that hurricane lasted she was all Mary Fawcett; and Alexander, meeting her eyes now and again, or catching sight of her as she darted forward at the first rattle of a shutter, recalled his mother’s many anecdotes of his redoubtable grandmother, and wondered if that valiant old soul had flown down the storm to the relief of the fortress.

Toward evening that sudden lull came which means that at last the besieged are in the very centre of the hurricane, and will have respite while the monster is swinging his tail to the west.  Alexander and Mrs. Mitchell, after opening the windows on the east side of the house, and securing those opening to the west, went to the pantry and made a substantial meal without sitting or selecting.  To his last day Alexander could not remember what he ate that night, although he recalled the candle in the long chimney, the constant craning of his aunt’s head, the incessant racing of the rats along the beams.  He went to his room and took a cold bath, which with the food and suspended excitement quite refreshed him; put on dry clothes, nailed a board against the hole in the roof, then sat down with Mrs. Mitchell in the western gallery to await the hurricane’s return.

“We have three windows where we had one before,” remarked Mrs. Mitchell; “and the hinges of that door are rusty.  God knows!  If you had not come, the roof would have gone long before this.”

“The silence is horrible,” said Alexander.