eleven o'clock
It was close upon eleven o'clock when I stepped out of the rear vestibule of the Boston Theatre , and , passing through the narrow court that leads to West Street , struck across the Common diagonally . Indeed , as I set foot on the Tremont Street mall , I heard the Old South drowsily sounding the hour . It was a tranquil June night , with no moon , but clusters of sensitive stars that seemed to shiver with cold as the wind swept by them ; for perhaps there was a swift current of air up there in the zenith . However , not a leaf stirred on the Common ; the foliage hung black and massive , as if cut in bronze ; even the gaslights appeared to be infected by the prevailing calm , burning steadily behind their glass screens and turning the neighboring leaves into the tenderest emerald .