Long after they were gone, Dan imagined that he could hear the mumble of their march past the door, hear the gray-haired officers chanting at them … He washed, dressed himself for the day, and went to build a fire in the kitchen stove. It was far into the forenoon; he had slept like a sot.

He ate, listlessly. The hours trembled by. He picked up his hat. Go to town for tobacco … yes, bacon. He’d forgotten so many things, the evening before. This day was darker and darker, a lead casket shaped around the world, and when he stopped to turn up his coat collar against the gray drizzle, it seemed as if he could hear the sound of firing. He leaned beside the gate, listening. Five minutes. Ten … Maybe it was thunder, a reluctant spasm of the rain-clouds. Still, it had come to his ears as no thunder ever came before.

He walked to the Diamond. The roads were empty of refugees; no high-piled wagons in sight. Clinkhofers’ grandchildren played quietly, cradling dolls in a Boston rocker on the deep porch. Bye oh bye oh bye, the white-braided-eldest girl sang, a tuneless rhythm thrown out by the plastered wall. And Mrs. McBride was calling across the road to some other neighbor, “Yes. Then you just beat it up with two eggs, but be sure you take out the yelks first.” The red bricks and board canopies of the business section sent back the mighty echoes of his footsteps, an accusing slap, slap like spanking hands. There were only six rigs in the entire Diamond. Everyone seemed to be hidden away.

Julius Orcutt met him as he mounted the step in front of the grocery. “It’s coming close, Daniel,” he said.

Bale nodded.

The lawyer had a brown paper envelope in his hands. He was mutilating a loose corner of it between his thumb and first finger. “They are the last we have to send. If the Southrons attack them—”

“It’s murder!” Dan cried. “God damn it, what are people thinking of?”

Orcutt drew in his chin. “They’re thinking of our great country, Dan—that’s what they are thinking of! Would that you’d think of it, too.”

“You go to hell,” Dan said. He stopped, knotted his fists, and then went into the store. Five men were looking at him; they had heard what passed outside. Mr. Pock sidled nervously from behind the counter. “Something?” he trilled.

“Yes, tobacco. I want a pound of bacon … no, two pounds. Your medium-best coffee: the small size sack. Sulphur matches” … the group of customers pushed close together. One of the men whispered a word or two. “Correct!” someone said explosively.

Bale went outside, carrying his purchases in a broken wooden box. Orcutt was standing beside one of the canopy posts, waiting for him. “Mr. Orcutt, I’m sorry,” Dan said.