THE TAILOR'S SISTER'S TOMBSTONE 



The village was buried in orchards, and lay along the 

 bank of a quickly running river that caught a glint 

 of the weird light here and there between the trees like 

 a path of shining silver. A squat church tower stuck 

 up among the red roofs. 



For a moment the scene shone in the fierce light, 

 then the low growling thunder broke into a tremendous 

 crash, and the light was gone in an instant. Then the 

 rain blotted out everything. 



The hiss of the rain on the dry heather thatch over 

 my head was good enough company, and it was added 

 to, soon, by the entrance of seven swallows that flew 

 into my shelter and sat twittering on a beam just inside 

 the opening. Then came an inky darkness, broken 

 violently by a blare of lightning as if some hand had 

 rent the dark curtain across in a rage. A great torn 

 jagged edge of blue-white light streamed across the 

 valley, showing everything in wet, glistening detail. 



Only that morning I had been reading by the way- 

 side an account of a storm in the Memoirs of Benvenuto 

 Cellini. It came very pat for the day. It was at the 

 time when Cellini rode from Paris carrying two precious 

 vases on a mule of burden, lent him to go as far as 

 Lyons, by the Bishop of Pavia. When they were a 

 day's journey from Lyons, it being almost ten o'clock 

 at night, such a terrific storm burst upon them that 

 Cellini thought it was the day of judgment. The hail- 

 stones were the size of Lemons ; and the event caused 

 him to sing psalms and wrap his clothes about his 

 head. All the trees were broken down, all the cattle 

 deprived of life, and a great many shepherds were 

 killed. 



I was still engaged in picturing this when the sky 

 above me grew lighter, the rain fell less heavily, and, 

 in a very short time, all that was left of the storm was 



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