eight o'clock
The inn was a plain , but comfortable place , with good wine , and excellent plain fare . After supper , Count Saxe , being weary , went to bed , the innkeeper valeting him , while I remained out of doors . The evening was softly beautiful . The sun was slowly disappearing ; it was not far from eight o'clock , and the sky was all red and gold and amber . The rich and quiet landscape was not unlike that of Capello , though far from being so rich and so lovely . It was the sweet hour at which I always thought of Francezka , the hour she always kept her vigil in the Italian garden -- a vigil that had seemed to me to be taking the form of remembrance of the dead , rather than expectation of the living . And knowing exactly what she was doing at that hour often produced in me a sense of nearness to Francezka .