midnight
MacNicholl ! '' He listens anxiously for a reply . None comes . A snow-wrapt grave at midnight is not more silent . In vain does he try to catch even the faintest sound of breathing , though he listens intently enough to hear the beating of their hearts ; but he hears only his own . `` Call that roll again ! '' he mutters in a voice far less assured than before ; `` Barbican !