That afternoon the wind, which had been rising steadily, brought a flurry of clouds up from the South-West.

Formed out on the heart of the Atlantic, they sailed forward, swift and fleecy at first, like the skirmishing white shallops of a great fleet; then, in serried masses, darkened the sun.

About four o'clock they broke in rain, which the wind drove horizontally with a cold whiffling murmur.

As youth and glamour die in a face before the cold rains of life, so glory died on the moor.

The tors, from being uplifted wild castles, became mere grey excrescences.