"Drag that table up.
Let's have some paper here and a pencil, and we'll work out the best plan possible." He sent for the commanding officers of the British regiments--both of them captains, but the seniors surviving--and a weird scene followed round the lamp set on the tiny table.

British, Sikh, Mohammedan, and Ghoorka clustered close to him, and watched as his pencil traced the different positions and showed the movement that was to make the morrow's finish, their faces outlined in the lamp's yellow glow and their breath coming deep and slow as they agreed on how the greatest damage could be done the enemy before the last man died.
As he finished, and assigned each leader to his share in the last assault that any one of them would take a part in, a streak of light blazed suddenly across the sky.

A shooting-star swept in a wide parabola to the horizon.

A murmur went up from the wakeful lines, and the silence of the graveyard followed.
"There is our sign, sahib!" laughed the Mohammedan.

The old Sikh nodded and the Ghoorka grinned.