“Must have mistaken your tin cathedral for the mess, padre,” he said. “I’ll run on and fetch him out.”
“If he’s made a mistake,” said Haddingly, “he’ll find it out for himself and come out without your fetching him.”
Dalton stood still. His eyes were on the door of the church. Maitland and Haddingly were gazing at it too. The other officers, gathered in a group outside the mess tent, stood in silence, staring at the church. It seemed as if hours passed. In fact, nearly half an hour went by before the door of the church opened and the airman came out. He turned his back on the camp and went towards his machine. Neither Dalton nor anyone else made an attempt to overtake him. The noise of the engine was heard again. The machine raced a few yards along the ground and then rose in steep flight. It passed across the camp and sped westwards, its shape sharply outlined for a minute against the light of the setting sun. Then it disappeared.
Maitland took Haddingly by the arm and led him to his tent. The two men sat down together on the camp bedstead. Maitland opened Mallory’s “Morte d’Arthur,” and read aloud:
“Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain, where he found an old chapel, and found there nobody, for all was desolate, and there he kneeled before the altar and besought of God wholesome counsel.”
“I suppose it was just that,” said Haddingly.
Dalton put his head into the tent.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “I just wanted to ask the padre something. Was that Sir Golliwog come to life again or just some ordinary blighter like me suffering from nerve strain?”
Haddingly had no answer to give for a moment.
“He can’t have really wanted to sit in that church for half an hour,” said Dalton. “What the dickens would he do it for?”