midnight
asked Little Thunder -- for it was he -- waiting and watching , as without the gates of Paradise . Well might he ask , for the late Mynheer , the Patroon , had been a veritable bat for darkness ; a few candles answered his purpose in the spacious rooms ; he played the prowler , not the grand lord ; a recluse who hovered over his wine butts in the cellar and gloated over them , while he touched them not ; a hermit who lived half his time in the kitchen , bending over the smoky fireplace , and not a lavender-scented gentleman who aired himself in the drawing-room , a fine fop with nothing but the mirrors to pay him homage . Little Thunder , standing with folded arms in the dark road , gloomy as Lucifer , almost expected to see the brilliant fabric vanish like one of those palaces of joy built by the poets . Hour after hour passed , midnight had come and gone , and still the lights glowed . Seated in the library , with the curtains drawn , were the land baron and Scroggs , a surveyor 's map between them and a dozen bottles around them . Before Mauville stood several glasses , containing wines of various vintages which the land baron compared and sipped , held to the light and inhaled after the manner of a connoisseur sampling a cellar . He was unduly dignified and stately , but the attorney appeared decidedly groggy .