When Trist recovered himself he found Brenda clinging to him. She had abandoned the shawl, and her bare arms were upon his sleeve.
The first sound that she heard was a laugh. Her first sensation was one of warmth, as her companion drew the soft wrap round her shoulders. The thunder was silent for a moment, but a low murmur seemed to run through the mountains. Again Trist laughed in a reassuring way, as men laugh when they are still standing after the first volley of an enemy, when the memory of the grim serrated flash of a thousand rifles is fresh upon their minds.
She made no attempt to help him with the shawl, which fluttered and flapped audibly in the breeze, but stood with idle, hanging arms awaiting and dreading a repetition of the wild anger of heaven, while he held the warm shawl round her throat.
“It is rather grander than we bargained for,” he said at length, and the sound of his voice awoke her.
She drew the wrap closer round her, and made a little movement as if to continue their way aft.
“I have never seen or heard anything like that!” she said at length, half apologetically, when they were seated.
Before he could answer, another peal of thunder broke over the mountains; and, immediately after, a brilliant flash of lightning darted down the bare face of the cliff opposite to them. The sharp, detonating thunder was simultaneous, and all nature seemed to quiver and vibrate. This time Brenda showed no sign of fear, but sat motionless, with her arms folded beneath the shawl. Strange to say, the air was intensely cold, while at short intervals a warmer breath came roaring down the valley. With the colder puffs there fell a torrent of rain, which seethed on the water and beat with a dull, continuous rattle on the soaked awning. Where they were seated, however, no splash or spray could reach them.
And now the storm began to move away down the fjord. In an incredibly short space of time the heavy black clouds rolled aside, and the stars began to twinkle. There was in the air a subtle scent of refreshed verdure, and the atmosphere was less variable. It was a wonderful sight, to watch the clouds creep along the summits of the mountains of which the bare, unlovely outline was every now and then revealed against distant widespread lightning. At intervals there arose low, subsidiary grumbles, as if the elements were partly appeased, though still dangerous to trifle with. The Hermione seemed ridiculously small and helpless amidst these great works of creation. Her sturdy spars, standing up boldly in the semidarkness, were of no height whatever against such towering cliffs.
At length Brenda spoke. She was by no means ashamed of her momentary terror during the first wild assault of the storm. Her feeling was nearer akin to surprise than fear, and the act of clinging to her companion in such a moment did not present itself to her in a very heinous light. It was a natural womanly instinct: she was half blinded by the lightning, almost suffocated by the heavy electricity of the atmosphere. Besides, they were such old friends. In bygone years they had been as brother and sister, exchanging a fraternal kiss at meeting or parting; but that was long, long ago.
“Courage,” observed Brenda thoughtfully, “would be a difficult thing to define.”
She turned and looked into his face with grave, questioning eyes. For a few moments he was silent, as if endeavouring to follow out her train of thought.
“You cannot reduce that to a science,” he said at length conclusively.
“I think most things in life can be reduced to a science.”
“I know you do—but you are mistaken. You would reduce life itself to a science, and make it quite unworth the living. Courage can no more be spoken of generally than other strictly human qualities, because no two minds are quite alike. I suppose you think that personal bravery is a mere matter of habit.”
“Not entirely.”
“Scarcely at all, Brenda. A brave man is a brave man on shore, at sea, and in a balloon. A foxhunter may be nervous in a boat. If so, I say he is at heart a coward, despite his foxhunting. When a sailor is uncomfortable in a dogcart he is not naturally a brave man, though at sea he borrow a false confidence from familiarity with what landsmen take to be danger.”
“What suggested the idea to me,” said the girl after a pause, “was that flash of lightning just now—when we first came on deck. I was not really frightened. I know that one never sees the flash by which one is struck. …”
“Scientific courage,” interrupted Trist gently.
“But I was startled. You never stirred excepting a mere physical motion caused by the brilliancy of the flash. Where was the difference then?”
“I think that was habit. It is easy enough to acquire the self-control necessary to prevent one’s self being startled by anything whatsoever. It is after the shock of surprise that courage is required. I have watched men of different constitutions in moments of danger, and have found that the mere act of jumping back or bobbing the head is a physical effect caused by surprise as much as fear. I have seen a man who was distinctly startled act, and act wisely, as well as rapidly, sooner than one who betrayed no sign of being moved.”
“I have often wondered,” murmured Brenda reflectively, “how certain people would act at a crisis. I have often longed to see you, for instance, on a battlefield.”
“I cannot return the compliment. Much as I enjoy your society, I would much rather not see you on a battlefield.”
The girl laughed at his gravity, and then continued, in her thoughtful, analytical way:
“I cannot picture you at work—at all! What are you like?”
He shrugged his shoulders and presently answered, in a slow, indifferent way, such as
