She turned over a dirty dog-eared memorandum book.
“469 Trench Mortar Battery.”
“So they had had a bad time?”
“One gathered that. They were very few, and some of their material was missing. At the last came this man with his two mules. One was sick, one was wounded. Most of the men, as soon as they had put up their animals, fell down and slept, but this one kept walking about. It was almost dark and it was beginning to rain. I asked him what he wanted.”
“What did he say?”
“‘To Hell with the Pope!’”
The shibboleth sounded so queer on her lips that Dormer glanced at her face. It was blank. She had merely memorized the words in case they might be of use to her. She went on:
“He did not like the images on the altar! Then he began to break the glass, and pull down the woodwork. One saw what he wanted. It was shelter for his mules.”
“You cautioned him that he was doing wrong?”
“I believe you. I even held him by the arm.”