three in the morning
So once again the little party came to a halt . Hillyard stood listening and wondering if the morning would ever come ; and even in that time of tension the habit of his mind reasserted its sway . This long , silent waiting for the dawn in the depths of an African forest with death at his very elbow -- here was another sharp event of life in vivid contrast with all the others which had gone before . The years in London , the letter-box opposite the Abbey where he had posted his manuscripts at three in the morning and bought a cup of coffee at the stall by the kerb -- times so very close to him -- the terms at Oxford , the strange hungry days on the quays of Spain , the moonlit wanderings on the footpath over the rustic ridge and up the hill , when he composed poems to the moon and pithy short , great thoughts -- here was something fresh to add to them if he did n't go down at daybreak under the hoofs of the herd ! Here was yet a further token , that out of the vicissitudes of his life something more , something new , something altogether different and unimagined was to come , as the crown and ultimate reason of all that had gone before . Once more the shikari 's hand touched him and pointed eastwards . The tree-trunks were emerging from the darkness .