“I ought to know it in the dark,” said Jones. “I don’t want to turn on the searchlight if I can help it.” To and fro we went like a fluttering bird, until the cleft of the road appeared among the trees. Then we dropped softly to the ground. I was almost too cramped and cold to move. With difficulty I descended and helped Elizabeth out. David followed, and we three stood chafing our hands and stamping until the circulation was restored. Jones leaned forward from the airplane. “I’ll run her into the trees in case anyone comes along and sees her,” he said. “We shall not see you until—?” asked David. “I’m not going back,” answered the airscout. “Not after this night’s work. You’ll see me in ten minutes.” “You are going to join us?” inquired David, joyfully. “Is it—do you mean Hancock knew you?” “No. That wasn’t Hancock, either. I know who it was—at least, I think I know. No, I’ve had enough of the Twin Bosses, after Elizabeth’s adventures. Put me down as the first airscout who went over.” David grasped him by the hand and shook it warmly. Jones whistled again, drew back, and the scoutplane rose to the tops of the trees, beat about, and vanished. David turned to me. “Arnold, are you prepared for a great and stunning revelation?” he asked. “Yes, he is prepared,” answered Elizabeth for me. We set off through the trees along a small, well-worn trail, until the crumbling bricks beneath us heaped themselves into a mound, and I saw the ruined foundations of the Institute before me, and the hole in the cellar roof. A sentinel leaped out at us. “For man?” he asked, leveling a Ray rod. “And freedom,” answered David. The sentinel called, and in a moment a crowd came rushing up a short ladder, wild-looking men with beards and hanging hair, all dressed in tatters and rags, a woman or two, and a youth who ran forward with a cry and caught Elizabeth in his arms. I saw the happiness they shared. David led me to a tall old man with bowed shoulders and a ragged white beard that spread fanwise across his breast. His hands were seared and twisted like those of one who has lived years of hardest toil, and the staff on which he leaned had a crooked handle. “Bishop Alfred,” he said, “this is the Messiah who was to come.” CHAPTER XVII THE CHAPEL UNDERGROUND In the subterranean chapel, lit by rushlights that sent the shadows scurrying and made fantastically unreal the eager faces and the dissolving groups that clustered now around me, now around David, and again gathered about the tall old bishop with his peasant’s face and child’s eyes, David told them my tale, and then in turn told me the legend that I had brought so wonderfully to fulfillment. The more bewildered I appeared, the stronger grew their faith, for the legend foretold that I was to come unknown to myself, and with no expectation of my own mission. They saw the cylinder, and there was none who doubted.