The dawn of the penitent, who rose at the Hour of the Cat, three hours earlier, and who will greet the sunrise as a farmhand welcomes sundown.
The dawn of the bravo, staggering, half sober, uncertain, wondering where the wounds on his left hand were made, touching the hilt of his weapon for reassurance.
The dawn of the hawker, turning his wares to hide the bruises, practicing his ritual call like a musician warming up.
The dawn of the itinerant warrior, cold, flea-bitten in a hayloft, his thoughts turning to who might give him food or lodging for a simple job done, a light quest, a threatening visit to a debtor, an assassination.
The dawn of a lady, which starts at the Hour of the Lamb, when the outer pavilion of the chateau is rolled up and the sunlight gleams fitfully into her chamber, where there is coffee.