midnight
The twelve flying hoofs roared and roared along the hard , smooth road . Poplars and moon , black bars and silver streaks , for mile after mile our course lay along the same chequered track , with our shadows in front and our dust behind . We could hear the rasping of bolts and the creaking of shutters from the cottages as we thundered past them , but we were only three dark blurs upon the road by the time that the folk could look after us . It was just striking midnight as we raced into Corbail ; but an hostler with a bucket in either hand was throwing his black shadow across the golden fan which was cast from the open door of the inn . ` Three riders ! ' I gasped . ` Have they passed ? '