“‘I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes.’
“‘Grondinni,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother.’
“‘And who has more right,’ said I, ‘seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible.’
“‘Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth,’ said Mr. Petulengro. ‘Look up there, brother!’
“I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded—the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch. The Gypsy’s finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky.
“‘What do you see there, brother?’
“‘A strange kind of cloud.’
“‘What does it look like, brother?’
“‘Something like a stream of blood.’
“‘That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.’