The Parson slid down into the darkness.
"Piper," he cried, hoarse and dry. "I believe—I believe these lads will win through. It's God's battle. He must help."
"He will, sir," replied the old man, firm as faith.
"I'm a clergyman. You're a good man. This is a desperate business.
Will you give us your blessing?"
He was down on his knees, in his white shirt, his sword a gleam of silver on the slabs before him.
"Kit."
The boy, swift to grasp his meaning, knelt beside him, pulling Blob after him.
An arm stole round him; his stole round Blob.
So they knelt in the twilight, hugging close in that aweful sense of loneliness that comes to men when the Gates of Death are seen to swing back to let them through.
Kit thought of his Confirmation six months ago.