Five o’clock
The rain was still gently pattering against the windows ; and the cold damp light seemed to moisten the walls . Not a sound came from outside save the monotonous plashing of the rain . The sparrows were doubtless crouching for shelter under the tiles , and the rowan-tree 's deserted branches showed but indistinctly in the veiling , drenching downpour . Five o'clock struck , grated out , stroke by stroke , from the wheezy chest of the old clock ; and then the silence fell again , seeming to grow yet deeper , dimmer , and more despairing . The priest 's painting work , as yet scarcely dry , gave to the high altar and the wainscoting an appearance of gloomy cleanliness , like that of some convent chapel where the sun never shines . Grievous anguish seemed to fill the nave , splashed with the blood that flowed from the limbs of the huge Christ ; while , along the walls , the fourteen scenes of the Passion displayed their awful story in red and yellow daubs , reeking with horror . It was life that was suffering the last agonies there , amidst that deathlike quiver of the atmosphere , upon those altars which resembled tombs , in that bare vault which looked like a sepulchre .