The only sound that came to him was
the light snoring of Miranda, who slept in the bathroom, not caring to
lie too near to anyone. He went to his room, and for a long time sat
buried in thought; then, opening the side window, he leaned out. On
the trees of the next garden, and the sloping roofs of stables and
outhouses, the moonlight had come down like a flight of milk-white
pigeons; with outspread wings, vibrating faintly as though yet in
motion, they covered everything. Nothing stirred. A clock was striking
two. Past that flight of milk-white pigeons were black walls as yet
unvisited. Then, in the stillness, Hilary seemed to hear, deep and very
faint, the sound as of some monster breathing, or the far beating of
muffed drums. From every side of the pale sleeping town it seemed to
come, under the moon's cold glamour. It rose, and fell, and rose, with
a weird, creepy rhythm, like a groaning of the hopeless and hungry. A
hansom cab rattled down the High Street; Hilary strained his ears after
the failing clatter of hoofs and bell. They died; there was silence.
Creeping nearer, drumming, throbbing, he heard again the beating of
that vast heart. It grew and grew. His own heart began thumping. Then,
emerging from that sinister dumb groan, he distinguished a crunching
sound, and knew that it was no muttering echo of men's struggles, but
only the waggons journeying to Covent Garden Market.
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