eight o’clock
No one would see him enter the Vatican save that spectral diadem of saints standing rigid over there on the summit of the opposite colonnade . The saints and the fountains were saying to him with one voice , that he believed he was passing through a solemn hour , but that this atom of time , he himself and the Pontiff , would soon pass away , would be lost for ever in the kingdom of forgetfulness , while the fountains continued their monotonous lament , and the saints their silent contemplation . But he , on the contrary , felt that the word of truth is the word of eternal life , and , concentrating his thoughts once more within himself , he closed his eyes and prayed with intense fervour , as for two days he had prayed that the Spirit might awaken this word in his breast , might bring it to his lips when he should stand before the Pope . He had expected some one between eight o'clock and a quarter past . The quarter had already struck , and no one had appeared . He turned and gazed at the bronze portal . Only one wing of it was open , and he could see lights beyond .