midday
East , and a trifle to the north , rises Beacon Hargate , on the top whereof one of the innumerable bonfires which warned England of the coming of the Armada hung out its flaming banner in the sight of three counties . Topping that high tableland , Beacon Hargate is familiar with wild weather at the proper seasons , and by dint of use takes very little notice of it . But on the evening on which this story has its proper beginning such a storm raged round and over the old Beacon as no man or woman of that region could even remember . It began in the grey of the dawn in wild and fitful gusts , driving thick squalls of rain before them , but long before midday it lost its first waywardness and settled down to business with a steady purpose . It grew in force from hour to hour , and almost from minute to minute , until all living things sought shelter . The disconsolate cattle huddled under the sparse hedgerows , looking down their broad , dripping noses in a meek abandonment to fate . The sheep packed themselves in any hollowed corner they could find , and hugged their soaked fleeces close to each other in uncomplaining patience .