“Our friend spoke incautiously,” I said.  “I make no doubt that Professor Owlsdarck will tell us that the preponderant evidence is in favor of Homer the individual, notwithstanding a few troublesome objections.”

“He was buried,” replied the Professor, “perhaps at Smyrna, perhaps at Cos, perhaps at neither.  It is not easy to decide what ancient city may rightly claim his bones.”

“He should have shown a sense of their value by writing some verses about them,” urged Dr. Dastick.  “There was Shakspeare, whose genius culminated in those important osteological observations inscribed upon his tombstone!”

At this point the undergraduate murmured something about “Wolf’s Prolegomena,” which was lost in a dull rumble of thunder,—­as if some giant outside the house had taken up the title and was gruffly repeating it.

And now the storm was coming.

The sky darkened rapidly.

The atmosphere lay thick and yellow.

Where was the procession?  Would it not be necessary to omit the triumphal progress through the town, and come to the hill at once?

Windy whiffs—­fledgling stormlets—­practised in the branches of the Twynintuft oak.  The great tree lunged and croaked at them.  Suddenly the lilac-bushes were fanned into fantastic shapes.  The sumach perked its red pompon like a holiday soldier, and then flung skyward its crimson battle-flag.  The wind blustered among the fallen leaves, and slammed a loose blind or two.  It grew darker,—­still darker.

The procession, at last,—­a straggling remnant of it,—­was seen pushing up the hill.  A remnant indeed!  The children, and those having charge of them, had withdrawn.  The Committee-men had sought shelter.  The Progressive Guard was decimated.  Every moment men and women were falling out of rank and hurrying away.

It was a little group that at length collected about the cider-mill.  Little at first,—­less every instant.  It would be necessary to abridge the exercises.  We saw Mrs. Romulus mount a barrel and harangue the seceders with furious gesticulation.  A book was passed up to her, and she apparently gave out some hymn or ode suitable to the occasion.  Alas! there remained no choir to give it vocal expression.

A hurricane-gust struck the town, and drove clouds of dust along the street.  Perhaps it was five minutes before the hill was again visible.  Then there stood by the Deacon’s cider-mill three figures.  Mr. Stellato waved a torch about his head, and flung it into the combustibles.  A sheet of flame shot madly up.  Mrs. Romulus seized one of the abandoned banners and flourished it in triumph.

Again the Twynintuft oak ground its great branches together, and threw them heavenward for relief.  The relief came.  The dry agony of Nature burst in a flood of tears.

The rain came beating down.  It came with a sudden plunge upon the earth, drenching all things.  And then, the sharp, curt rattle of hail.