the hour of five
Jeanne was seated by the window with the book which she had been reading open upon her lap . She gazed pensively into the oval sheet of leaden water slumbering at her feet , at the passing clouds , casting their ever-changing shadows on the little villa , on the deserted garden , the trees of the opposite bank , the distant fields , on the bridge to the left , and on the quiet roads , which lost themselves behind the Béguinage , and on the slanting roofs of Bruges , grand , mysterious , dead . Could it be that _ l'Intruse _ of whom she had just been reading , that fatal , unseen visitor , was even now crossing the sepulchral city ; could it be that the short ripples upon the face of the dark water were her shadow , while she herself had reached the threshold of the villa , bringing with her the coveted gift of eternal sleep ! The church bells chimed the hour of five . High , high up , near the white clouds , magic voices of innumerable bells sang over the houses , the squares , the streets of Bruges that melancholy incantation which renders its rest eternal . Jeanne felt two cool hands upon her eyes , a wave of perfume touched her cheek , a breath stirred her hair , whispering `` _ encore une intruse _ , '' and then soft lips kissed her . She did not seem surprised ; and , raising her hand , caressed the face bending over her , saying : `` Welcome , Noemi .