the clouds rapidly before it.  The glare of the lightning made every corner of the church as bright as day, and the crash of the thunder shook the wooden roof over our heads.  But there was no rain yet, and when we came out—­in fear and trembling, I confess, as to how we were to get home—­we could see that the violence of the storm had either passed over or not yet reached the valley in which Maritzburg nestles, and was expending itself somewhere else.  So F——­ decided that we might venture.  As for vehicles to be hired in the streets, there are no such things, and by the time we could have persuaded one to turn out for us—­a very doubtful contingency, and only to be procured at the cost of a sovereign or so—­the full fury of the storm would probably be upon us.  There was nothing for it, therefore, but to walk, and so we set out as soon as possible to climb our very steep hill.  Instead of the soft, balmy twilight on which we had counted, the sky was of an inky blackness, but for all that we had light enough and to spare.  I never saw such lightning.  The flashes came literally every second, and lit up the whole heavens and earth with a blinding glare far brighter than any sunshine.  So great was the contrast, and so much more intense the darkness after each flash of dazzling light, that we could only venture to walk on during the flashes, though one’s instinct was rather to stand still, awestricken and mute.  The thunder growled and cracked incessantly, but far away, toward the Inchanga Valley.  If the wind had shifted ever so little and brought the storm back again, our plight would have been poor indeed; and with this dread upon us we trudged bravely on and breasted the hillside with what haste and courage we could.  During the rare momentary intervals of darkness we could perceive that the whole place was ablaze with fireflies.  Every blade of grass held a tiny sparkle of its own, but when the lightning shone out with its yellow and violet glare the modest light of the poor little fireflies seemed to be quite extinguished.  As for the frogs, the clamorous noise they kept up sounded absolutely deafening, and so did the shrill, incessant cry of the cicalas.  We reached home safely and before the rain fell, but found all our servants in the verandah in the last stage of dismay and uncertainty what to do for the best.  They had collected waterproofs, umbrellas and lanterns; but as it was not actually raining yet, and we certainly did not require light on our path—­for they said that each flash showed them our climbing, trudging figures as plainly as possible—­it was difficult to know what to do, especially as the Kafirs have, very naturally, an intense horror and dislike to going out in a thunderstorm.  This storm was not really overhead at all, and scarcely deserves mention except as the precursor of a severe one of which our valley got the full benefit.  It was quite curious to see the numbers of dead butterflies on the garden-paths after that second storm.  Their beautiful plumage was not dimmed or smirched nor their wings broken:  they would have been in perfect order for a naturalist’s collection; yet they were quite dead and stiff.  The natives declare it is the lightning which kills them thus.