I threatened and pleaded in vain, for the old man’s face had the joyousness of a child’s.
“It’s no use talking, Arnold,” he said, patting my arm affectionately. “I am a stubborn man when my mind is made up, and it is made up now. I have thought about it a long time. You see, I am the last bishop in England. I am not a learned man, but the Lord Bishop of London”—how happily he said that!—“laid hands on me an hour before they burned him in Westminster Hall. Now it is right that I should follow him and take on martyrdom. It will give inspiration to the people. It will be a wonderful encouragement to them to see me among the fagots. I have prayed the Lord to give me strength, because I am a cowardly old man, and He has done so. I should like to consecrate my successor before I die. But the Russians will take care of that, and it is fitter that they should renew the line in England. They will be here in a few days to save the world, and then we shall all be one.”
“How do you know?” I cried.
“It is given to me to know,” he answered, wagging his white head. “So there is no longer any reason why I should not go into the People’s House and bear testimony to the truth. You can go back now. I will carry your message to Lembken before I die.”
Before I could restrain him he had started off along the road, and his quick jog-trot gave him almost as much speed as my scrambling, wild pursuit. I caught him, however, a hundred yards away.
“Bishop Alfred, you must go back to your friends,” I said. “Your idea is nonsense. There is no need to sacrifice yourself.”
He shook his head and detached himself. I stumbled over a projecting root, and when I was on my feet again I saw the old man another fifty yards away. Once more I was approaching him. And then I halted suddenly and drew back among the trees, for just beyond the bend in the road lay the dark airplane, and the old man had stopped beside it, evidently waiting to be taken in.
However, since he continued to wait there, I advanced noiselessly toward it, with the hope of rescuing him, until I realized that the dark airplane was empty.
The occupant had left it, but for what reason, or where he had gone, I could not surmise.
I was just where the old road joined with a small, twisting path that struck back among the trees. Some instinct cautioned me to silence. If I had spoken ... but I did not speak, and then, among the trees, following the crooked trail not fifty paces away, I saw the aviator, walking with head bent downward, evidently unconscious of human proximity.