“And what a peal!” said I; “that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai—­the voice of the Lord.  Are you afraid?”

“No,” said Belle, “I rather like to hear it.”

“You are right,” said I, “I am fond of the sound of thunder myself.  There is nothing like it:  Koul Adonai behadar; the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayer-book version hath it.”

“There is something awful in it,” said Belle; “and then the lightning, the whole dingle is now in a blaze.”

“’The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes.’  As you say, there is something awful in thunder.”

“There are all kinds of noises above us,” said Belle:  “surely I heard the crashing of a tree?”

“‘The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,’” said I, “but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises.  Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner:—­

   ’Astonied now I stand at strains,
   As of ten thousand clanking chains;
   And once, methought, that overthrown,
   The welkin’s oaks came whelming down;
   Upon my head upstarts my hair: 
   Why hunt abroad the hounds of air? 
   What cursed hag is screeching high,
   Whilst crash goes all her crockery?’

You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” said Belle, “especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; surely that was the crash of a tree?”

“Ah!” said I, “there falls the cedar tree—­I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short.”

“What a pity,” said Belle, “that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring:  how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember.”

“I don’t think so,” said I; “after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last.  But to return to Ab Gwilym’s poetry, he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects.  Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode,

   ’My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,
   For parting my dear pearl and me!’”

“You and I shall part; that is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in repeating from him.  The man must have been a savage.  A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead.”

“Yes,” said I, “there he lies just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness.  So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Gothe:—­