midnight
That strange whisper was to Lenore the whisper of God . Through the pale obscurity of a French night , cool , raw , moist , with a hint of spring in its freshness , a line of soldiers plodded along the lonely , melancholy lanes . Wan starlight showed in the rifts between the clouds . Neither dark nor light , the midnight hour had its unreality in this line of marching men ; and its reality in the dim , vague hedges , its spectral posts , its barren fields . Rain had ceased to fall , but a fine , cold , penetrating mist filled the air . The ground was muddy in places , slippery in others ; and here and there it held pools of water ankle-deep . The stride of the marching men appeared short and dragging , without swing or rhythm .