noon
Little more had passed between them when the six-sided towers of Raglan rose on their view . Richard had , from childhood , been familiar with their aspect , especially that of the huge one called the Yellow Tower , but he had never yet been within the walls that encircled them . At any time during his life , almost up to the present hour , he might have entered without question , for the gates were seldom closed and never locked , the portcullises , sheathed in the wall above , hung moveless in their rusty chains , and the drawbridges spanned the moat from scarp to counterscarp , as if from the first their beams had rested there in solid masonry . And still , during the day , there was little sign of change , beyond an indefinable presence of busier life , even in the hush of the hot autumnal noon . But at night the drawbridges rose and the portcullises descended -- each with its own peculiar creak , and jar , and scrape , setting the young rooks cawing in reply from every pinnacle and tree-top -- never later than the last moment when the warder could see anything larger than a cat on the brow of the road this side the village . For who could tell when , or with what force at their command , the parliament might claim possession ? And now another of the frequent reports had arrived , that the king had at length resorted to arms .