five o'clock in
the afternoon
Sitting on the side of her cot , from which the gray blanket had been dragged and folded half across her shoulders , where one hand held it , while the other clutched savagely at her throat ; with her bare delicate feet beating a tattoo on the white sanded floor , and her thin nostrils dilated in the battle for breath , Iva Le Bougeois moaned in abject terror . The coarse , unbleached `` domestic '' night-gown that fell to her ankles was streaked across the bosom with some dark brown fluid ; and similar marks stained the pillow where her restless head had tossed . The hot eyes and parched red lips seemed to have drained all the tainted blood from her olive cheeks , save where , just beneath the lower lids , ominous terra-cotta rings had been painted and glazed by the disease . As Beryl pushed open the iron door , and held up the lantern , that its brightness might stream into the cell , where even at five o'clock in the afternoon of a rainy day darkness reigned , the rays flashed back from the glowing eyes chatoyant as a cougar 's . `` Your message was not delivered until to-day , and I lost no time in coming . '' The small head , where short , straight , blue-black locks , rumpled and disordered , were piled elfishly around the low brow , was thrown up with the swift movement of some startled furry animal , alert even in the throes of death . `` Is all hope over ?