It was a dark and stormy night, of course. So dark and so stormy was this night that it might well have served as the model for dark and stormy nights of all time. It was so dark that not only was no moonlight or starlight in evidence, there wasn’t even a memory of the moon or stars in the minds of any Twigley brother or cousin, the tars who were the crew of the caravel. It was so stormy that the wind did not merely howl, but roared such an assault upon Twigley ears that the memory of all cannons firing at once now seemed like unto the lilting song of the hedge sparrow in June. It was a dark night, and it was a stormy night.