The darkness is
augmented and confused, by flying dust from the earth, dry twigs
from the trees, and great ragged fragments from the rooks' nests up
in the tower. The trees themselves so toss and creak, as this
tangible part of the darkness madly whirls about, that they seem in
peril of being torn out of the earth: while ever and again a
crack, and a rushing fall, denote that some large branch has
yielded to the storm.
Not such power of wind has blown for many a winter night. Chimneys
topple in the streets, and people hold to posts and corners, and to
one another, to keep themselves upon their feet. The violent
rushes abate not, but increase in frequency and fury until at
midnight, when the streets are empty, the storm goes thundering
along them, rattling at all the latches, and tearing at all the
shutters, as if warning the people to get up and fly with it,
rather than have the roofs brought down upon their brains.
Still, the red light burns steadily. Nothing is steady but the red
light.
All through the night the wind blows, and abates not. But early in
the morning, when there is barely enough light in the east to dim
the stars, it begins to lull. From that time, with occasional wild
charges, like a wounded monster dying, it drops and sinks; and at
full daylight it is dead.
It is then seen that the hands of the Cathedral clock are torn off;
that lead from the roof has been stripped away, rolled up, and
blown into the Close; and that some stones have been displaced upon
the summit of the great tower.
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