THE KING’S CUP
THE KING’S CUP
I
LITTLE SATAN
A swift thunder-storm had rushed down the Thames valley, passed over sultry London with clamour and hail scourge, and was gone—as sudden and wholesome as a good man’s passion. The town lay, a little dazed, it seemed, gasping as one astonished, yet mightily refreshed.
In the gardens of the Temple every leaf dripped and shone the brighter; the dry earth drank and sent up a fragrance to mingle with the scent from the historic rose-bushes of the inner pleasance, the glory of which now lay scattered, white and red, on the turf, each petal with the tears in its heart glinting under that sky of incomparable blue that reveals itself after the squall.
Down the steep slope from King’s Bench Walk, mimic mountain torrents rushed in haste, seeking the river which rolled, heaving still, a troubled yellow, in angry ebb toward the east, where the clouds still lowered in their flight.