Part Three - Before the Dawn

July 21.

Neale had lain so long with his eyes on the place where the window ought
to be, that finally he was half persuaded he could see it, a faintly
paler square against the black of the room. Very soon dawn would come in
that window, and another day would begin.

At the thought the muscles of his forearms contracted, drawing his
fingers into rigidly clenched fists, and for a moment he did not
breathe.

Then he conquered it again; threw off the worst of the pain that had
sprung upon him when he had wakened suddenly, hours before, with the
fear at last there before him, visible in the darkness.

What was this like? Where before had he endured this eternity of
waiting? Yes, it was in France, the night when they waited for the
attack to break, every man haggard with the tension, from dark till just
before dawn.

He lay still, feeling Marise's breathing faintly stirring the bed.

There in France it had been a strain almost beyond human power to keep
from rushing out of the trenches with bayonets fixed, to meet the
threatened danger, to beat it back, to conquer it, or to die and escape
the suspense. Now there was the same strain. He had the weapons in his
hands, weapons of passion, and indignation and entreaty and reproach,
against which Marise would not stand for a moment.

But there in France that would have meant possibly an insignificant
local success and the greater victory all along the line imperiled. And
here that was true again. There hadn't been anything to do then but
wait. There was nothing to do now but wait.