He had heard it when it seemed to him that ten thousand little children were crying under the rolling and twisting onrush of the clouds; he had heard it when it seemed to him the darkness was filled with an army of laughing, shrieking madmen—­storm out of which rose piercing human shrieks and the sobbing grief of women’s voices.  It had driven people mad.  Through the long dark night of winter, when for five months they caught no glimpse of the sun, even the little brown Eskimos went keskwao and destroyed themselves because of the madness that was in that storm.

And now it swept over the cabin, and in Celie’s throat there rose a little sob.  So swiftly had darkness gathered that Philip could no longer see her, except where her face made a pale shadow in the gloom, but he could feel the tremble of her body against him.  Was it only this morning that he had first seen her, he asked himself?  Was it not a long, long time ago, and had she not in that time become, flesh and soul, a part of him?  He put out his arms.  Warm and trembling and unresisting in that thick gloom she lay within them.  His soul rose in a wild ecstasy and rode on the wings of the storm.  Closer he held her against his breast, and he said: 

“Nothing can hurt you, dear.  Nothing—­nothing—­”

It was a simple and meaningless thing to say—­that, and only that.  And yet he repeated it over and over again, holding her closer and closer until her heart was throbbing against his own.  “Nothing can hurt you.  Nothing—­nothing—­”

He bent his head.  Her face was turned up to him, and suddenly he was thrilled by the warm sweet touch of her lips.  He kissed her.  She did not strain away from him.  He felt—­in that darkness—­the wild fire in her face.

“Nothing can hurt you, nothing—­nothing—­” he cried almost sobbingly in his happiness.

Suddenly there came a blast of the storm that rocked the cabin like the butt of a battering-ram, and in that same moment there came from just outside the window a shrieking cry such as Philip had never heard in all his life before.  And following the cry there rose above the tumult of the storm the howling of Bram Johnson’s wolves.

CHAPTER XV

For a space Philip thought that the cry must have come from Bram Johnson himself—­that the wolf-man had returned in the pit of the storm.  Against his breast Celie had apparently ceased to breathe.  Both listened for a repetition of the sound, or for a signal at the barred door.  It was strange that in that moment the wind should die down until they could hear the throbbing of their own hearts.  Celie’s was pounding like a little hammer, and all at once he pressed his face down against hers and laughed with sudden and joyous understanding.

“It was only the wind, dear,” he said.  “I never heard anything like it before—­never!  It even fooled the wolves.  Bless your dear little heart how it frightened you!  And it was enough, too.  Shall we light some of Bram’s candles?”