"Hold," thought he; "can it be midnight already?"
Mechanically he set himself to count.
"Three, four, five."
He mused.
"At what long intervals this clock strikes! how slowly! Six; seven!"
Then he remarked,—
"What a melancholy sound! Eight, nine! Ah! nothing can be more natural; it's dull work for a clock to live in a prison. Ten! Besides, there is the cemetery. This clock sounds the hour to the living, and eternity to the dead. Eleven! Alas! to strike the hour to him who is not free is also to chronicle an eternity. Twelve!"
He paused.
"Yes, it is midnight."
The clock struck a thirteenth stroke.