Now he was helpless, incapable of concerted action. He could not even retreat, but only lie and listen and wait. Now it was their move. The terrors of the blind were apt to be blind terrors indeed.
The sounds were not long in beginning. At first an indistinct murmur. Then something—or someone—scampered swiftly past his door. He got up and locked it; then lay back, spent by the exertion. Presently the running and scampering began in earnest. And a hissing and squealing such as might have emanated from all the fiends in Hell. Once there came a scratching at the door.
An hour passed like a century. The sounds had gradually died away into an absolute silence that was much worse. He waited.
There came a knock at the door.
He sat up quickly. "Who is it?"
"It's me—Joseph."
He unlocked the door and the boy came in with light, eager tread. "You all right?" he said.
"Yes—yes, I'm all right. But I can't see. Tell me, what time is it?"
"It's nearly morning."
"Thank God! Now listen carefully. Do you know what a strategic withdrawal is?"