THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
was duly and sweetly sung, Edith bade her lover by no means look for her on the morrow, "since," said she, "there will be a dreadful and violent storm of thunder and lightning and furious rain, that will slay many men, and beasts, and tear up the oaks on the mountain side, and pour the brooks and the river all across the land." At this prophecy Sir Philip was in no little astonishment, for the air was dry and not too clear, no cloud was in the sky, and the western heaven was filled with the clear red glow of the sunset. And with many questions he tried to make Edith tell him what her intent was, or how she knew of tempests before they fell, when there was no sign or apparent likelihood of the same; but she would not resolve him, replying with put-offs and kisses, and twining her arms fast round his neck, so that he had to be content with these doubtful though pleasant explanations. And as he went home he saw an old husband working in the fields, whom he asked plainly if he thought a storm was approaching, receiving for answer that there could be no better prospect of fine weather; though the man, who was a wary old Silurist, ended his reply by saying "so we should think, however," but this he always did, knowing by long experience that there is no certitude or sure opinion in mortal affairs. But he always excepted one thing, and still stiffly maintained that strong ale was a good drink and a desirable. In this as we know, he was right, as he was in his all but universal cautel judicious and philosophical, notably in this matter of the weather, for on the morrow there burst a
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