It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents except at occasional intervals when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies) rattling along the house-tops and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
With a single drop of ink for a mirror the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you reader.
The speaker was a lad of sixteen. He and his sister who was two years his senior were both dressed in deep mourning and were sitting on a bench near Southsea Castle looking across to Spithead and the Isle of Wight stretching away behind.