one o'clock in the morning
Don Francisco de Mogente had come from the West ; had known the newness of the new generation . And he stood for a moment as if in a dream , breathing in the tainted air of narrow , undrained streets ; listening to the cry of the watchman slowly dying as the man walked away from him on sandaled , noiseless feet ; gazing up at the barred windows , heavily shadowed . There was an old world stillness in the air , and suddenly the bells of fifty churches tolled the hour . It was one o'clock in the morning . The traveler had traveled backwards , it would seem , into the middle ages . As he heard the church bells he gave an angry upward jerk of the head , as if the sound confirmed a thought that was already in his mind . The bells seemed to be all around him ; the towers of the churches seemed to dominate the sleeping city on every side .