about eight o'clock
* * * * * It was a nightmare tramp . The rain never ceased . By day we lay in icy misery , chilled to the bone in our sopping clothes , in some dank ditch or wet undergrowth , with aching bones and blistered feet , fearing detection , but fearing , even more , the coming of night and the resumption of our march . Yet we stuck to our programme like Spartans , and about eight o'clock on the third evening , hobbling painfully along the road that runs from Cleves to Calcar , we were rewarded by the sight of a long massive building , with turrets at the corners , standing back from the highway behind a tall brick wall . `` Bellevue ! '' I said to Francis , with pointing finger . We left the road and climbing a wooden palisade , struck out across the fields with the idea of getting into the park from the back .