Then the second silently shipped his oar and hoisted the sail.
Hardly had he made it fast when a fresh of wind came down the lake and
they began to stretch across the bay with spreading canvas. The wind was
contrary, but Odo welcomed it, for he saw at once that it would be
quicker work to tack to the other shore than to depend on the oars. The
scene underwent a sudden change. The silver mirror over which they had
appeared to glide was shivered into sparkling fragments, and in the
enveloping rush and murmur of the night the boat woke to a creaking
straining activity.
The man at the rudder suddenly pointed to a huddle of lights to the
south. "Peschiera."
Odo laughed. "We shall soon show it our heels," said he.
The other boatman shrugged his shoulders. "Even an enemy's roof may
serve to keep out the storm," he observed philosophically.
"The storm? What storm?"
The man pointed to the north. Against the sky hung a little black cloud,
the merest flaw in the perfect curve of the night.
"The lake is shrewish at this season," the boatman continued. "Did your
excellencies burn a candle before starting?"
Odo sat silent, his eyes fixed on the cloud. It was growing visibly now.
With every moment its outline seemed to shift and spread, till its black
menace dilated to the zenith. The bright water still broke about them in
diamond spray; but as the shadow travelled the lake beneath it turned to
lead. Then the storm dropped on them. It fell suddenly out of
mid-heaven.
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