It was night now. The column still marched. But Bailey and Ellyat Had dropped to the rear of the column, planning escape. There were few guards and the guards were as tired as they. Two men could fall in a ditch by the side of the road And get away, perhaps, if they picked a good time. They talked it over in stupid whispers of weariness. The next bend⁠—no, the guard was coming along. The next bend after⁠—no, there was light for a moment From a brief star, then clouded⁠—the top of the hill⁠— The bottom of the hill⁠—and they still were marching. Rain began to fall, a drizzle at first, then faster. Ellyat’s eyes were thick. He walked in a dream, A heavy dream, cut from leaden foil with blunt shears. Then Bailey touched him⁠—he felt the tired bones of his skull Click with a sudden spark⁠—his feet stopped walking⁠— He held his breath for an instant, And then wearily slumped in the ditch with enormous noise, Hunching his shoulders against a phantom bayonet.