eight o’clock
It glittered like a string of stars drawn across a spider 's - web viaduct , then vanished into a tunnel , while we swept on towards the plains of La Mancha , Ropes crouched like a goblin over his wheel . Rain again , blurring villages , and sweeping through the stone streets of a town : fields once more , and at last Manzanares . There Dick insisted that we should stop for food , lest strength fail me when I should need it most ; but I could not bear to go back to the _ fonda _ I knew , to see the pretty girls there look at my pale face with shocked eyes , perhaps to have them question me about the `` white and gold angel . '' It was eight o'clock when we got away from the café , where we had spent some twenty minutes ; and the road was no longer clear . We were obliged to moderate our speed , and lost more time than we could afford getting on to Aranjuez . `` Do your best now , Ropes , '' I was saying , when the Gloria -- for once perverse -- burst a tyre with a loud explosion . Ropes threw me a rueful look .