four o'clock in the afternoon
Read this narrative , it will recall to your mind the family gathering of the previous evening , my son Jocelyn -- it will also inform you of something that you do not know . You will not thereafter ask again : `` Why did good Araim start this narrative to-day , and not yesterday ? '' The January snow and hail are falling in torrents ; the wind moans ; at a distance the sea roars and dashes inshore as far as the sacred stones of Karnak . It is only four o'clock in the afternoon , and yet it is night to all intents and purposes ; the warmly stalled cattle are locked in ; the gates of the farmyard are closed tightly out of fear of prowling wolves ; a large fire shoots up its flames in the fireplace of the hall ; old Araim is seated in his armchair , at the chimney-corner , with his large grey dog , its head streaked with the white of old age , stretched out at his feet . The old man is at work on a net for fishing ; his son Jocelyn is fashioning a plough handle ; Kervan is adjusting new thongs to a yoke ; Karadeucq is sharpening the points of his arrows on a flint-stone . The tempest will last till morning if not longer , because the sun went down like a ball of fire behind thick black clouds that wreathed the isle of Sen like a dense fog . Whenever the sun sets in that fashion and the wind blows from the west the tempest lasts two , three , sometimes four and five days .