The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts
that made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down
at intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and
projections--but it was all music to the King, now that he was snug and
comfortable: let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan
and wail, he minded it not, he only enjoyed it.