Time, one hour before sunrise.
Whetstone.
Why didn’t you make it next year, in the dark of the moon? Major, I feel that my blood will be upon your so-called head.
Bluegrass.
Not if my head can save you, and I think it can. With some acuteness, I secured Scythe as attendant surgeon, in case of an accident, and he has already gone to the spot with all his surgical implements of healing.
[Rooster crows.
Whetstone.
What’s that? Is’t the signal?
Bluegrass.