It was unfortunate that, after so trouble-free an arrival, he should stumble in the dark as he was rising and severely twist his ankle on a piece of rock. After the first shock the pain became bearable, and he gathered up his parachute before limping into the trees to hide it as best as he could. The hardness of the ground and the deep darkness made it almost impossible to do this efficiently. The pine needles lay several inches deep, so he simply pile them on top of the parachute, cutting the short twigs that he could feel around his legs, and spreading them on top of the needles. He had great doubts about whether it would stay buried, but there was very little else that he could do about it. After limping for some distance in an indirect course away from his parachute he began to make his way downhill through the trees. He had to find out where he was, and then decide what to do next. But walking downhill on a rapidly swelling ankle soon proved to be almost beyond his powers. He moved more and more slowly, walking in long sideway movements across the slope, which meant taking more steps but less painful ones. By the time he cleared the trees and reached the valley, day was breaking. Mist hung in soft sheets across the fields. Small cottages and farm buildings grouped like sleeping cattle around a village church, whose pointed tower pointed high into the cold winter air to welcome the morning. 'I can't go much farther,' John Harding thought. 'Someone is bound to find me, but what can I do? I must get a rest before I go on. They'll look for me first up there on the mountain where the plane crashed. I bet they' re out looking for it already and they are bound to find the parachute in the end. I can' t believe they won't. So they'll know I' m not dead and must be somewhere. They'll think I'm hiding up there in the trees and rocks so they'll look for me there. So I'll go down to the village. With luck by the evening my foot will be good enough to get me to the border.' Far above him on the mountainside he could hear the faint echo of voices, startling him after the great silence. Looking up he saw lights like little pinpoints moving across the face of the mountain in the gray light. But the road was deserted, and he struggled along, still almost invisible in the first light, easing his aching foot whenever he could, avoiding stones and rough places, and limping quietly and painfully towards the village. He reached the church at last. A great need for peace almost drew him inside, but he knew that would not do. Instead, he limped along its walls towards a very old building standing a short distance from the church doors. It seemed to have been there forever, as if it had grown out of the hill inside. It had the same air of timelessness as the church. John Harding pushed open the heavy wooden door and slipped inside. It was really hard for John to hide the parachute because ______.