the hour of adventures that are sought and never found; the hour,
finally, of the chaste virgin's dreams and of the venerable old man's
rheumatism. And as this romantic hour glided on, the shouts and songs
and quarrels of the street subsided; the lights in the balconies were
extinguished; the shopkeepers and janitors drew in their chairs from
the gutter to surrender themselves to the arms of sleep.

In the chaste, pure dwelling of Dona Casiana the boarding-house
keeper, idyllic silence had reigned for some time. Only through the
balcony windows, which were wide open, came the distant rumbling of
carriages and the song of a neighbouring cricket who scratched with
disagreeable persistency upon the strident string of his instrument.

At the hour, whatever it was, that was marked by the twelve slow,
raucous snores of the corridor clock, there were in the house only an
old gentleman,--an impenitent early-riser; the proprietress, Dona
Casiana,--a landlady equally impenitent, to the misfortune of her
boarders, and the servant Petra.

At this moment the landlady was asleep, seated upon the rocking-chair
before the open balcony; Petra, in the kitchen, was likewise asleep,
with her head resting against the window-frame, while the old
early-rising gentleman amused himself by coughing in bed.

Petra had finished scouring and her drowsiness, the heat and fatigue
had doubtless overcome her. She could be made out dimly in the light
of the small lamp that hung by the hearth. She was a thin, scrawny
woman, flat-chested, with lean arms, big red hands and skin of greyish
hue. She slept seated upon a chair with her mouth open; her breathing
was short and laboured.