noon
And it is not I who am bitter , but the truth . Jackals both , I say . '' They were , as Villon had said , in the rose garden . Dusk , the dusk of the day on which Hugues had made history to be forgotten , was thickening fast , but the air was still warm with all the sultriness of noon . To that confined space , with the grey walls towering on three sides , coolness came slowly . The solid masonry held the heat like the living rock itself , and no current of the night wind blowing overhead eddied downward in refreshment . But solid as was the masonry , and mighty the walls in their frowning strength , there is but little of them left , and of the rose garden not a trace .