His eyes are fixed on the lamp. He seems to be two persons: one watching the lamp, the other pointing at the sentry telling him to halt.

‘Halt!’

There is something else under the wide cloak. In his other hand. His eyes are glued to the lamp.

‘Halt!’ he says.

‘Yes,’ answers the sentry, trembling.

‘Get into the shadow!’ he barks out, indicating with a jerk of his head a shadow on the wall, a shadow formed by an edge of brickwork. The light from the arrows does not penetrate into a small hollow there.

‘Yes,’ replies the sentry, like an echo, about to stumble there. This thing is pointing at him all the time. And all the time the eyes of this stranger are glued to the warning lamp.

‘Get there quick! And no further! Or I’ll fire!’

‘No, no!’ says the bewildered sentry. He is trembling, for he has been waiting for this voice. And here it is. This is what he knew would happen one day when all the golden coins had been carefully counted.

It has found me out, he thinks, and stumbles into the shadow. Yes, he has known about this voice. Just as he had expected the man who came and asked him once: Do you know what you’re doing? He had been swallowed up at once, that young man, but he had succeeded in ramming his question into the sentry’s innermost soul.

That’s how it is here. But now another young man is standing here in this terrible open place, even wearing the cloak belonging to the companion whom he should have relieved. Standing there staring at the dead lamp, waiting for the van. A face savage with tension, and death-dealing hands. What is to become of me? thinks the sentry as he flattens himself against the wall.

He has been at the service of the van a thousand times. He will be asked about every single instance. The time has come.

He winces in fright: someone coughed. The false guard coughed threateningly. The glass door is open so it can be heard clearly. It doesn’t take more than a cough to pierce through him like a sharp weapon.

He stays flat against the wall, turned towards the sentry-post. And the fellow in there on the slab sees nothing but the lamp, like a genuine watchman. How has he learned to play on the switches? The sentry glances out at the great darkness that is the rest of the house looming dimly on all sides of him. What are they doing in there, in all the hidden hollows? This one on the signal slab is a messenger from them. They know about everything there, he thinks, while all the vans he has let in seem to file silently past him.

If it’s any use, I can volunteer to tell them how many, he thinks. I know exactly how many there were. I know one burning number, and it’s the number of journeys the van has taken. Let me confess it! he thinks, eager to call across to the dangerous man who has taken his place.