nine o'clock
There was mischief in the air and it took but a little flight of the fancy to conjure Pan and his nymphs gamboling about the sleeping house of the vagabonds . Morning had importuned their shutters long before Markham awoke and gazed with startled eyes at the diagonal bar of orange light which cut the obscurity of their hiding place . Then , rubbing his eyes , he stumbled to his feet and stared at his watch . It was nine o'clock . Hermia still slept , huddled under her overcoat , one rosy cheek pillowed on her open palm , her tumbled hair flooding riotously about her shoulders . Markham stopped a moment to gaze at her again , but she stirred under his look , so he moved quickly away to the door and peered cautiously out , searching the forest with eager eyes . Gaining courage , he went out , making the round of the house with eyes and ears intent .