He could not see her in that pitchy blackness, except when the lightning flashes came.  Then she was like a ghostly wraith, with drenched clothes clinging to her until she seemed scarcely dressed, her wet hair streaming and her wide, staring eyes looking straight ahead.  After the lightning flashes, when the world was darkest, he could hear the stumbling tread of her feet and the panting of her breath, and now and then the swish of brush as it struck across her face and breast.  The rain had washed away the scent of his master’s feet but he knew they were following Jolly Roger, and that the girl was running to overtake him.  In him was the desire to rush ahead, to travel faster through the night, but Nada’s stumbling feet and her panting breath and the strange white pictures he saw of her when the sky split open with fire held him back.  Something told him that Nada must reach Jolly Roger.  And he was afraid she would stop.  He wanted to bark to give her encouragement, as he had often barked in their playful races in the green plain-lands on the farther side of Cragg’s Ridge.  But the rain choked him.  It beat down upon him with the weight of heavy hands, it slushed up into his face from pools in the trail and drove the breath from him when he attempted to open his jaws.  So he ran close—­so close that at times Nada felt the touch of his body against her.

In these first minutes of her fight to overtake the man she loved Nada heard but one voice—­a voice crying out from her heart and brain and soul, a voice rising above the tumult of thunder and wind, urging her on, whipping the strength from her frail body in pitiless exhortation.  Jolly Roger was less than half an hour ahead of her.  And she must overtake him—­quickly—­before the forests swallowed him, before he was gone from her life forever.

The wall of blackness against which she ran did not frighten her.  When the brush tore at her face and hair she swung free of it, and stumbled on.  Twice she ran blindly into broken trees that lay across her path, and dragged her bruised body through their twisted tops, moaning to Peter and clutching tightly to the sheathed knife in her hand.  And the wild spirits that possessed the night seemed to gather about her, and over her, exulting in the helplessness of their victim, shrieking in weird and savage joy at the discovery of this human plaything struggling against their might.  Never had Peter heard thunder as he heard it now.  It rocked the earth under his feet.  It filled the world with a ceaseless rumble, and the lightning came like flashes from swift-loading guns, and with it all a terrific assault of wind and rain that at last drove Nada down in a crumpled heap, panting for breath, with hands groping out wildly for him.

Peter came to them, sodden and shivering.  His warm tongue found the palm of her hand, and for a space Nada hugged him close to her, while she bowed her head until her drenched curls became a part of the mud and water of the trail.  Peter could hear her sobbing for breath.  And then suddenly, there came a change.  The thunder was sweeping eastward.  The lightning was going with it.  The wind died out in wailing sobs among the treetops, and the rain fell straight down.  Swiftly as its fury had come, the July storm was passing.  And Nada staggered to her feet again and went on.