“Watchers! Grasp hands!” commanded Vafi.
“Flohad! Your hand!” said Menegal, groping to the right.
“Here it is, Menegal,” said Flohad, putting forth his hand into Menegal’s unseen one.
“I cannot see you, Wixtil. Where is your hand?” cried Luvilia, fumbling out to the left.

That night the watch was doubled, for the Persians would undoubtedly be there soon. No man slept that night. The watchmen stood at all the ends of the pass like stones with moonlight gleaming on their armor and helmets.

“Luvilia, what is ahead? I thought I heard you jump,” said Menegal.
“You heard correctly. There is a ditch in the path. But be careful not to jump too short,” said Luvilia.
“There is a ditch ahead, watch not to jump to short,” said Menegal, to Ebhali who marched behind him.

Coming to a halt for evening’s camp, Menegal wearily set himself down on the ground to rub his ankle that had swelled up again. He had walked mainly in silence for the ending of the march for he was thinking about Golwitch. Memories of playing in the lake that was in the valley where they had lived as children came into his mind, and of the hunts they had enjoyed together.

“What is troubling you my friend?” asked Golwitch, staring into the firelight which beamed on his face.
“I am not sure I know,” said Menegal. “But for certain, out of all misunderstanding, there is something that is going to happen to us all, which is grievous.”