the
hour of eleven
It was necessary to recover breath , and to decide whether to go by the way of the Rue Clovis , or to turn down by the steep of Rue de la Mont Ste. Geneviève to the Boulevard St. Germain . It was but for a few panting moments . The clock of the ancient campanile of the Lycée Henri IV . struck the hour of eleven . The hoarse , low , booming sound went sullenly rumbling and roaring up and down the stone-ribbed plaza of the Panthéon , and rolled and reverberated from the great dome that sheltered the illustrious dead of France . The curious old church of St. Étienne du Mont rose immediately in front of the girl , and the sound of the bells startled her , -- shook her ideas together , -- and , with the sight of the church , restored , in a measure , her presence of mind . Her thoughts flew instantly back to the happy scene she had recently left behind .