midnight
An hour to strike . MARINO FALIERO . The hours of darkness had already well nigh passed , and but for the thick storm-clouds and the drizzling rain , some streaks of early dawn might have been seen on the horizon , when at the door of Marcus Læca , in the low grovelling street of the Scythemakers -- strange quarter for the residence of a patrician , one of the princely Porcii -- the arch-conspirator stood still , and glared around with keen suspicious eyes , after his hurried walk . It was , however , yet as black as midnight ; nor in that wretched and base suburb , tenanted only by poor laborious artizans , was there a single artificial light to relieve the gloom of nature . The house of Læca ! How little would the passer-by who looked in those days on its walls , decayed and moss-grown even then , and mouldering -- how little would he have imagined that its fame would go down to the latest ages , imperishable through its owner 's infamy . The house of Læca !