Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling.

The dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing.

I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me.
The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door.

I called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out.

The wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed to.