midnight
After a time the mood of the pianist changed . She drifted into the deeper , the more sombre , more impressive `` Kamennoi-Ostrow '' of Rubinstein . She played it softly , so softly , yet so expressively sadly , that I was drawn by its alluring to leave my veranda and cross over the wooden bridge , in order to be nearer and to hear better . Quietly , but quite openly , I took the path by the house , on to the edge of the cliffs , where I could hear every note , every shade of expression ; where I could follow the story : -- the Russian setting , the summer evening , the beautiful lady , the pealing of the bells calling the worshippers to the chapel for midnight mass ; the whispered conversations , the organ in solemn chant , the priests intoning the service , the farewell , and , lastly , the lingering chords of the organ fading into the deep silence of slumber . Just as I was about to sit down , I descried the solitary , shadowy outline of a figure seated a few yards away . It was Jake , -- poor , old , lonely , battle-scarred Jake . His head was in his hands and he was gazing out to sea as if he were dreaming .