The drooping leaves of the birches in the hollow flittered ominously, and when he reached the summit a bluff that stood out from the plain two or three miles off suddenly vanished.  It looked as if a curtain had been drawn across the grass.  The horses set off at a fast trot, and the rig jolted furiously among the ruts.  It would not be dark for an hour, but the gray obscurity that had hidden the bluff was getting near.  At its edge and about a mile off a pond shone with a strange sickly gleam.

Then a dazzling flash fell from the cloud bank overhead and touched the grass.  A stunning crash of thunder rolled across the sky, and the team plunged into a frantic gallop.  Festing braced himself in a vain attempt to hold them, for the trail was half covered with tall grass and broken by badger holes.  He was soon breathless and dazzled, for the lightning fell in forked streaks that ran along the plain, and the trail blazed in front of the horses’ feet.  Thunder is common in Canada, but it is on the high central plains that the storms attain their greatest violence.

The team plunged on, and Festing, jolting to and fro, durst not lift his eyes from the trail.  The storm would probably not last long and might do some good if it were followed by moderate rain.  But he was not sure that moderate rain would fall.  By and by a few large drops beat upon his hat, there was a roar in the distance, and a cool draught touched his face.  It died away, but the next puff was icy cold, and the roar got louder.  He looked up, for he knew what was coming, but there was not a bluff in sight that would shield him from the wind.

Turning down his hat-brim against the increasing rain, he let the horses go.  He need not try to hold them; the storm would stop them soon.  It broke upon him with a scream and a shower of sand and withered grass.  He staggered as if he had got a blow, and then leaned forward to resist the pressure.  The horses swerved, and he had trouble to keep them on the trail, but their speed slackened and they fell into a labored trot.  For a few minutes they struggled against the gale, and then the roar Festing had heard behind the scream drowned the rumbling thunder.  He threw up his arm to guard his face as the terrible hail of the plains drove down the blast.

It fell in oblique lines of ragged lumps of ice, hammering upon the wagon and bringing the horses to a stop.  They began to plunge, turning half round, while one pressed against the other, in an effort to escape the savage buffeting.  Festing let them have their way at the risk of upsetting the rig, and presently they stopped with their backs to the wind.  He let the reins fall, and the hail beat upon his bowed head and shoulders like a shower of stones.  The horses stood limp and trembling, as powerless as himself.