The shadows in the room danced upon his lowered face. The candle on the coffee table flickered as he spoke. "I've come with urgent news, sir." The other in the room grew unnerved by the cool chill that now grasped each man's fears. "The men, now, have been three days in the mountains searching," commenced the messenger. "They are—we are—all concerned as to your intentions?" The General arose slowly from his weathered wicker rocker. Grey-haired, he was aged with time, yet strengthened by age. His wisdom surpassed that of his predecessors. He stared calmly into the eyes of the messenger. The room fell silent. The General spoke. "You tell the troo—No. You tell the men that, God as my witness, that platoon will be found. I don't care if Beelzebub himself was in those hills. Those soldiers are coming home!" The messenger, weary of the words that were spoken, turned abruptly and left the room. The General fell to his rocker and, with his hands pressed sternly upon his forehead, whispered. "God, help us all."