He had been there for hours watching his slumbering comrade.

Watching ?--no, not watching, but awake by his side, brooding over thoughts unutterably bitter--over feelings inexpressibly wretched.
"What's o'clock ?" was the first natural exclamation of the Hombourger.
"I believe it is five o'clock," said his friend.

It was ten.

It might have been twelve, two, half-past four, twenty minutes to six, the Margrave would still have said, "I BELIEVE IT IS FIVE O'CLOCK." The wretched take no count of time: it flies with unequal pinions, indeed, for THEM.
"Is breakfast over ?" inquired the crusader.
"Ask the butler," said the Margrave, nodding his head wildly, rolling his eyes wildly, smiling wildly.
"Gracious Bugo!" said the Knight of Hombourg, "what has ailed thee, my friend?
It is ten o'clock by my horologe.

Your regular hour is nine.
You are not--no, by heavens! you are not shaved! You wear the tights and silken hose of last evening's banquet.