Then he took the pistol,
uncocked it cautiously, and dropped it behind him. He turned to Pierre
and regarded him curiously. "Go on with your confession, Pierre. Tell
me about this strange kind of cowardice which can face death."

The soldier dropped on his knees again, and went on, in a low, shaken
voice: "It is this, Father. By my broken soul, this is the very root of
it. _I am afraid of fear_."

The priest thought for an instant. "But that is not reasonable, Pierre.
It is nonsense. Fear cannot hurt you. If you fight it you can conquer
it. At least you can disregard it, march through it, as if it were not
there."

"Not this fear," argued the soldier, with a peasant's obstinacy. "This
is something very big and dreadful. It has no shape, but a dead-white
face and red, blazing eyes full of hate and scorn. I have seen it in
the dark. It is stronger than I am. Since something is broken inside of
me, I know I can never conquer it. No, it would wrap its shapeless arms
around me and stab me to the heart with its fiery eyes. I should turn
and run in the middle of the battle. I should trample on my wounded
comrades. I should be shot in the back and die in disgrace. O my God!
my God! who can save me from this? It is horrible. I cannot bear it."

The priest laid his hand gently on Pierre's quivering shoulder.
"Courage, my son!"

"I have none."

"Then say to yourself that fear is nothing."

"It would be a lie. This fear is real."

"Then cease to tremble at it; kill it."

"Impossible. I am afraid of fear."

"Then carry it as your burden, your cross. Take it back to Verdun with
you."

"I dare not. It would poison the others. It would bring me dishonor."

"Pray to God for help."

"He will not answer me. I am a wicked man. Father, I have made my
confession. Will you give me a penance and absolve me?"

"Promise to go back to the army and fight as well as you can."

"Alas! that is what I cannot do. My mind is shaken to pieces. Whither
shall I turn? I can decide nothing. I am broken. I repent of my great
sin. Father, for the love of God, speak the word of absolution."

Pierre lay on his face, motionless, his arms stretched out. The priest
rose and went to the spring. He scooped up a few drops in the hollow of
his hand. He sprinkled it like holy water upon the soldier's head. A
couple of tears fell with it.

"God have pity on you, my son, and bring you back to yourself. The word
of absolution is not for me to speak wh