Eight o'clock
The tolling of the bells was over . The echo quietly died away , and then the echo of the echo . Another bell struck , sounding the hour . Eight o'clock , eight sonorous detached strokes , beating with terrible regularity , with invincible calm , simple , simple . I counted them , and when they had ceased to pulsate in the air , I could not help counting them over again . It was time that was passing -- formless time , and the human effort that defined it and regularized it and made of it a work as of destiny . I was alone .