the hour of twelve
read them again -- and yet again ; pore over their contents -- dwell on those passages replete with tenderness , until every word is stamped upon thy breaking heart -- linger by them as the weary traveller amid Sahara 's sand pauses by some sparkling fountain in a shady oasis , tasting of its pure waters ere he launches forth again upon the arid waste beyond . This is the last green spot upon thy way to death ; beyond whose grim portals , let us believe , thou and thy `` little Birdie '' may meet again . `` Murder will out . '' The city clocks had just tolled out the hour of twelve , the last omnibus had rumbled by , and the silence without was broken only at rare intervals when some belated citizen passed by with hurried footsteps towards his home . All was still in the house of Mr. Stevens -- so quiet , that the ticking of the large clock in the hall could be distinctly heard at the top of the stairway , breaking the solemn stillness of the night with its monotonous `` click , click -- click , click ! '' In a richly furnished chamber overlooking the street a dim light was burning ; so dimly , in fact , that the emaciated form of Mr. Stevens was scarcely discernible amidst the pillows and covering of the bed on which he was lying . Above him a brass head of curious workmanship held in its clenched teeth the canopy that overshadowed the bed ; and as the light occasionally flickered and brightened , the curiously carved face seemed to light up with a sort of sardonic grin ; and the grating of the curtain-rings , as the sick man tossed from side to side in his bed , would have suggested the idea that the odd supporter of the canopy was gnashing his brazen teeth at him .