About the sunset the clouds broke and the storm turned to a
hurricane. Bars of purple cloud stretched across the sound where
immense waves were rolling from the west, wreathed with snowy
phantasies of spray. Then there was the bay full of green delirium,
and the Twelve Pins touched with mauve and scarlet in the east.
The suggestion from this world of inarticulate power was immense,
and now at midnight, when the wind is abating, I am still trembling
and flushed with exultation.
I have been walking through the wet lanes in my pampooties in spite
of the rain, and I have brought on a feverish cold.
The wind is terrific. If anything serious should happen to me I
might die here and be nailed in my box, and shoved down into a wet
crevice in the graveyard before any one could know it on the
mainland.
Two days ago a curagh passed from the south island--they can go out
when we are weather-bound because of a sheltered cove in their
island--it was thought in search of the Doctor. It became too rough
afterwards to make the return journey, and it was only this morning
we saw them repassing towards the south-east in a terrible sea.
A four-oared curagh with two men in her besides the rowers--
probably the Priest and the Doctor--went first, followed by the
three-oared curagh from the south island, which ran more danger.
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