the hour of ten
Time passes ; the last moments speed silently , sweetly , in the old , old ecstasy of all-absorbing , time-killing love . Then the inevitable '' _ Adios _ ! '' though sounding less harshly by favour of the appended phrase -- '' _ Hasta Cadiz _ ! '' The clocks of San Francisco are striking the hour of ten . The moon has risen over Monte Diablo , and sends her soft mellow beams across the waters of the bay , imparting to their placid surface a sheen as of silver . The forms of the ships at anchor are reflected as from a mirror ; their hulls , with every spar , stay , and brace , even to the most delicate rope of their rigging , having a duplicated representative in the fictitious counterfeit beneath . On none is there any canvas spread ; and the unfurled flags do not display their fields , but hang motionless along masts , or droop dead down over taffrails .