It was raining on the mountains yonder, raining in torrents poured from
those inky clouds, as it had done off and on for the past twenty-four
hours, and above their fire-laced bosom floated glorious-coloured masses
of misty vapour, enflamed in a thousand hues by the arrows of the sinking
sun. Above her, however, there was no sun, nothing but the curtain of
cloud which grew gradually from grey to black and minute by minute sank
nearer to the earth.

Walking through the dry river-bed, Rachel reached the island which was the
last and highest of a line of similar islands that, separated from each
other by narrow breadths of water, lay like a chain, between the dry donga
and the river. Here she began to gather her gooseberries, picking the
silvery, octagonal pods from the green stems on which they grew. At first
she opened these pods, removing from each the yellow, sub-acid berry,
thinking that thus her basket would hold more, but presently abandoned
that plan as it took too much time. Also although the plants were
plentiful enough, in that low and curious light it was not easy to see
them among the dense growth of reedy vegetation.

While she was thus engaged she became aware of a low moaning noise and a
stirring of the air about her which caused the leaves and grasses to
quiver without bending. Then followed an ice-cold wind that grew in
strength until it blew keen and hard, ruffling the surface of the marshy
pools. Still Rachel went on with her task, for her basket was not more
than half full, till presently the heavens above her began to mutter and
to groan, and drops of rain as large as shillings fell upon her back and
hands. Now she understood that it was time for her to be going, and
started to walk across the island--for at the moment she was near its
farther side--to reach the deep, rocky river-bed or donga.