ten o'clock
I shall drive slowly . You -- you are wounded , are you ? there -- on the neck -- '' `` It is his blood on my breast . '' At ten o'clock that night Jack stepped from the ballroom to the terrace of the Château Morteyn and listened to the distant murmur of the river Lisse , below the meadow . The day of horror had ended with a dozen dropping shots from the outposts , now lining the banks of the Lisse from the Château de Nesville to Morteyn . The French infantry had been pouring into Morteyn since late afternoon ; they had entered the park when he entered , driving his tumbril with its blood-stained burden ; they had turned the river into a moat , the meadow into an earthwork , the Château itself into a fortress . On the concrete terrace beside him a gatling-gun glimmered in the starlight ; sentinels leaned on their elbows , sprawling across the parapets ; shadowy ranks of sleeping men lay among the shrubbery below , white-faced , exhausted , motionless .