three o'clock
As if it were her own movement alone that made her visible , she swayed there , dimly discerned , while she slipped her white canvas like a beauty disrobing in the dark , sail by sail , till she stood naked under a veil of dusk , and the light went up above her bows . A restless thing that schooner yacht ; her canvas was hardly lowered before it was up again . She had not long lain dreaming , passive to the will of the tide . At sunrise she awoke , and what with her own swinging and vibration , and the voices and trampling of her joyous , red-capped , blue-jerseyed crew , there was no sleep for anyone in her neighborhood after three o'clock . So Durant rolled out of his berth , dressed hastily , and went on deck , eager to see her in her beauty , robed for the morning and the wind . There she was , so near now that he could almost have tipped a rope-end down her skylight from the skylight of the _ Torch _ , every line of her exquisite body new-washed in gold and shivering under the touches of the dawn . She was awake , alive ; the life that had still beaten through her dreams in the night , stirred by the drowsy fingering of the harbor tide , was throbbing and thrilling with many pulses as she shook out her streamers to the wind .