It begins with a heave of the whole atmosphere, like the sigh of a weary strong man on turning to re-commence unusual exertion, just as I stand here in the second fosse.

That which now radiates from the sky upon the scene is not so much light as vaporous phosphorescence.
The wind, quickening, abandons the natural direction it has pursued on the open upland, and takes the course of the gorge's length, rushing along therein helter-skelter, and carrying thick rain upon its back.

The rain is followed by hailstones which fly through the defile in battalions--rolling, hopping, ricochetting, snapping, clattering down the shelving banks in an undefinable haze of confusion.

The earthen sides of the fosse seem to quiver under the drenching onset, though it is practically no more to them than the blows of Thor upon the giant of Jotun-land.

It is impossible to proceed further till the storm somewhat abates, and I draw up behind a spur of the inner scarp, where possibly a barricade stood two thousand years ago; and thus await events.
* * * * * The roar of the storm can be heard travelling the complete circuit of the castle--a measured mile--coming round at intervals like a circumambulating column of infantry.