But that morning there was a hush in the woods that Chad understood.  On a sudden, a light wind scurried through the trees and showered the mistdrops down.  The smoke from his fire shot through the low undergrowth, without rising, and the starting mists seemed to clutch with long, white fingers at the tree-tops, as though loath to leave the safe, warm earth for the upper air.  A little later, he felt some great shadow behind him, and he turned his face to see black clouds marshalling on either flank of the heavens and fitting their black wings together, as though the retreating forces of the night were gathering for a last sweep against the east.  A sword flashed blindingly from the dome high above them and, after it, came one shaking peal that might have been the command to charge, for Chad saw the black hosts start fiercely.  Afar off, the wind was coming; the trees began to sway above him, and the level sea of mist below began to swell, and the wooded breakers seemed to pitch angrily.

Challenging tongues ran quivering up the east, and the lake of red coals under them began to heave fiercely in answer.  On either side the lightning leaped upward and forward, striking straight and low, sometimes, as though it were ripping up the horizon to let into the conflict the host of dropping stars.  Then the artillery of the thunder crashed in earnest through the shaking heavens, and the mists below pitched like smoke belched from gigantic unseen cannon.  The coming sun answered with upleaping swords of fire and, as the black thunder hosts swept overhead, Chad saw, for one moment, the whole east in a writhing storm of fire.  A thick darkness rose from the first crash of battle and, with the rush of wind and rain, the mighty conflict went on unseen.

Chad had seen other storms at sunrise, but something happened now and he could never recall the others nor ever forget this.  All it meant to him, young as he was then, was unrolled slowly as the years came on—­more than the first great rebellion of the powers of darkness when, in the beginning, the Master gave the first command that the seven days’ work of His hand should float through space, smitten with the welcoming rays of a million suns; more than the beginning thus of light—­of life; more even than the first birth of a spirit in a living thing:  for, long afterward, he knew that it meant the dawn of a new consciousness to him—­the birth of a new spirit within him, and the foreshadowed pain of its slow mastery over his passion-racked body and heart.  Never was there a crisis, bodily or spiritual, on the battle-field or alone under the stars, that this storm did not come back to him.  And, always, through all doubt, and, indeed, in the end when it came to him for the last time on his bed of death, the slow and sullen dispersion of wind and rain on the mountain that morning far, far back in his memory, and the quick coming of the Sun-king’s victorious light over the glad hills and trees held out to him the promise of a final victory to the Sun-king’s King over the darkness of all death and the final coming to his own brave spirit of peace and rest.