Old Ugly-Face by Talbot Mundy

Old Ugly-face saw Andrew coming. A crackling flash of lightning revealed the old prelate's glittering eyes and every grained wrinkle on his face. He made no sign of recognition. He turned his back and walked away toward the hermits, saluted by a cannonade of thunder that sounded like bursting mountains. Then Elsa turned and faced Andrew. He couldn't tell whether she welcomed him or not-- whether she was surprised or not. There wasn't much of her visible under the peaked hood as she braced herself against the wind.

The storm had reached its crisis. It began to exhaust itself in spastic squalls that tore rocks loose and sent them rolling over the abyss. A broken ice dam loosed a torrent across the ledge; poured out fifty feet into the wind before it curved downward and was lost in the dark whirling uproar. It was impossible to speak. Andrew threw an arm around Elsa. He almost lifted her off her feet. She made no protest. She let him half carry, half drag her across the ledge to an empty hermit's cave, where the hollow roar within was silence compared to the tumult outside. There she braced herself, back to the wall. He used his flashlight. She shook her head. After that they spoke when they could see each other by the flash of forked lightning, and when they could hear between peals of thunder.