eight o'clock in the morning
For him , then , no French sabre had been sharpened , no French bullet fired . The one complete atonement his conscience told him it was in his power to make had been denied him . Was a heavier one awaiting him now , as he drew near the dusky woodlands of his birthplace in the dim , grey dawn of day ? It was eight o'clock in the morning , and already the rays of the sun had strengthened , as Boleslav left the wild tangle of the forest behind him , and beheld his home stretched out at his feet . He had not set eyes on it for ten years . His first fierce impulse now was to shake his fist at the village which lay there so hypocritically idyllic in the calm of early morning , with its white toy cottages set in bowers of green bushes , its curls of blue-grey smoke , and opalescent slate church spire rising peacefully against the sky . Beyond were the magnificent groups of old trees with dark , almost black foliage and yellowish trunks belonging to the Castle park , which sloped away on the eastern side of the hill .