As he ceased speaking, a vivid flash of lightning, of the kind called “forked,” struck through the darkness; and all “the artillery of heaven” burst forth overhead. The din among the black masses of shipping, in the river before them, which here opened into a noble bay (for it was too large to be called a basin), seemed to increase, yet the whistling of the wind and rain was heard above it. Hildebrand paused a moment: then, wrapping his cloak around him, he turned about, and led Don Rafaele towards the city. A flight of steps brought them to a quay, whence they passed into a long, dirty street. Not a living creature was to be seen: nothing was to be seen, indeed, but the black houses, which gave forth no sign of being inhabited. After going along some distance, they came to another street, turning out of the main thoroughfare, in which they espied a light. Whispering Don Rafaele to be of good heart, and (for he had become very faint) helping him along with one hand, Hildebrand immediately made for the light, and shortly came up with it. As he had expected, it issued from the lower casement of a tavern, the outermost door of which, opening into a close passage, was fastened back, and thus invited whoever might be passing to enter. On coming before the open door, Hildebrand paused, and turned to speak to his companion. “Be of good cheer, Rafaele!” he said. “The storm favours us, and, methinks, we have no great cause for fear.” “How can I be afeard when with thee?” answered Don Rafaele. “I fear nought, but I am grievously faint.” “That we will amend within here,” rejoined Hildebrand. “Let us enter.” He led the way as he spoke, and, followed by Don Rafaele, passed to the end of the passage, where a door admitted them into the inn. On their entry, they found themselves in a large room, which served the purpose of a modern bar. A cheerful light hung from the roof; and a long table, on which were displayed several dishes of cold viands, and divers goodly flasks, stood in its centre. Behind the table, in one corner of the room, was a fire of logs, at which stood mine host and hostess. At the moment that our friends entered, those two worthies seemed, by their looks, to be in a state of great tribulation; but mine host was revived by the appearance of two guests, and quickly proceeded to bid them welcome. “Senhors, welcome, i’ God’s name!” he cried. Here a tremendous peal of thunder threw him on his knees. “_Sancta Johannes Baptista, ora pro nobis, peccatoribus!_” he added. “_Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!_” exclaimed his wife, also falling on her knees. The thunder was, indeed, awful, and shook the very house. As it roared over his head, Don Rafaele, whether from terror, or the higher impulse of devotion, was almost inclined to follow the example of mine host and hostess, and fall on his knees in prayer. While he yet hesitated, however, Hildebrand caught him by the arm, and led him forward to the fire.