And he, too, was gone. I waited at the edge of the old road, watching them disappear among the trees. The last thing that I saw was the bishop’s white beard, a spot in the darkness. Then I was alone, with the London road before me, and a mission as desperate as any that was ever undertaken, and as pregnant with possibilities.
I do not know how long I had been traveling, whether five minutes or twenty, nor whether I walked or ran. I became conscious of a soft whistling in the air, and, glancing up, saw a dark airplane, black against the risen moon.
I sprang from the road and hid myself in the underbrush.
The airplane dipped, passed me, and dipped again, with the purpose, evidently, of alighting in the road. It passed beyond my sight, flying low, and veering from side to side as its occupant examined the ground for a resting place.
As I rose to continue my journey I heard a low hail among the trees. I started around, to see the old bishop approaching me at a jog-trot. He came up panting, and stood before me, holding his pastoral staff against his breast.
“Did you see the airplane?” he asked, following the road with his eyes.
“What are you doing here, Bishop Alfred?” I asked in astonishment, for there was an expression of supreme, benignant happiness upon his face. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, alone,” he answered, smiling. “I left them quietly. They would not have let me go. I followed you until I saw the airplane. I am going to Lembken in your place.”
“But you will be put to death!” I cried. “Surely, you know—”
“Yes, but that is all right,” he answered. “It is three years now since any priest was burned for the faith. I have been thinking about it for a long time. Now I am ready. I am going into the People’s House to preach the Gospel. I—I ran away from David,” he added, chuckling at the success of his maneuver.