twelve o'clock
Readjusting her veil , Manuela passed out the little wicket gate , treading on air . Again the sun shone , and the breath of the swamps came as healthful sea-breeze unto her nostrils . She fairly flew in the direction of St. Rocque . There were quite a number of persons entering the white gates of the cemetery , for this was Friday , when all those who wish good luck pray to the saint , and wash their steps promptly at twelve o'clock with a wondrous mixture to guard the house . Manuela bought a candle from the keeper of the little lodge at the entrance , and pausing one instant by the great sun-dial to see if the heavens and the hour were propitious , glided into the tiny chapel , dim and stifling with heavy air from myriad wish-candles blazing on the wide table before the altar-rail . She said her prayer and lighting her candle placed it with the others . Mon Dieu !