midnight
His voice sinks : it seems that he breathes a milder language , and speaks to some softer being . There is no sound , save the long-drawn breath of one on whose countenance is stamped infinite amazement . Arundel Dacre walks the room disturbed ; often he pauses , plunged in deep thought . ` Tis an hour past midnight , and he quits the bedside of the young Duke . He pauses at the threshold , and seems to respire even the noisome air of the metropolis as if it were Eden . As he proceeds down Hill Street he stops , and gazes for a moment on the opposite house . What passes in his mind we know not .