midnight
She never mentioned Trennahan to Magdaléna . Nor did he write . The Pacific might have been climbing over him , for any sign he gave . It was midnight , and Magdaléna was still awake ; a storm raged , prohibitive of sleep . The wind screamed over the hills , tearing the long ribbons of rain to bits and flinging them in great handfuls against the windows ; from which they rebounded to the porch to skurry down the pipes and gurgle into the pools of the soaked ground below . The roar of the ocean bore aloft another sound , a long heavy groan , -- the fog-horn of the Farallones . Magdaléna imagined the wild scene beyond the Golden Gate : the ships driven out of their course , bewildered by the fog , the loud unceasing rattle of the rigging , the hungry boom of the breakers , the mountains and caverns of the raging Pacific .