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."