His pulses quickened; the tension of his Celtic nerves keyed itself up
like a banjo-string about to snap. Steeled in the grim usages of
war though he was, and more than once having felt the heart-breaking
stress of the zero hour, this final moment of waiting, of suspense
before the attack that was so profoundly to affect his life and the
lives of all these other hardy men, pulled heavily at his nerves. He
desperately wanted a smoke, again, but that was out of the question.
It seemed to him, there in the dark and stillness, one of the fateful
moments of time, pregnant with possibilities unlimited.

The Master, Alden, Rrisa, mere vague blurs among the ferns, remained
motionless. If their nerves were a-tingle, they gave no hint or sign
of it. Where might the others of the Legion be? No indication of
them could be made out. No other living thing seemed in the woods
encircling the stockade. Was each man really there and ready for the
predetermined role he was to play?

It seemed incredible, fantastic, to suppose that all these
adventurers, each separate and alone, each having no contact, with
any other, should all have taken their assigned posts. That each, with
luminous watch on wrist, was even now timing himself, to the second,
before striking the single note calculated to produce, in harmony with
all the rest, the finished composition. Such an assumption partook
more of the stuff of an Arabian Nights tale than of stern reality in
this Twentieth Century and on the outskirts of the world's greatest
city.

The Master, crouching, whispered: