world that his will not throw down any challenge. If it is to live, it
must escape the notice of the vulgar triumphing sceptics, and even of
the doubting habits of his own mind. Yet it does live its own humble and
hesitating life; and in its hesitations and its humility is its
strength. He could not be acclaimed by any eager bishop as a lost sheep
returning repentant to the fold; but he is not lost, nor is the
universe to him anything but a home and the dear city of God even in the
trenches.

His expression of this faith is always vague, tentative, and
inconclusive. He is certain of something, but he cannot say what; yet he
knows that he is certain, although, if he were to try to express his
certainty in any old terms, he would reject it himself. He knows; but he
cannot tell us or himself what he knows. There are sentences in which,
as M. Chevrillon says, he speaks like an Indian sage; but I do not think
that Indian philosophy would have satisfied him, because it is itself
satisfied. For he is in this matter of faith a primitive, beginning to
build a very small and humble temple out of the ruins of the past. He
has no science of theology, nothing but emotions and values, and a trust
in them. They are for a reality that he can scarcely express at all; and
yet he is the more sure of its existence because of the torment through
which he is passing. He uses that word _torment_ more than once. The war
is to him a martyrdom in which he bears witness to his love, not only
for France, but also for that larger country which is the universe. The
torment makes him more sure of it than ever before; it heightens his
sense of values; and he knows that what matters to a man is not whether
he is joyful or sorrowful, but the quality of his joy and his sorrow.
There are times when, like an Indian sage, he thinks that all life is
contemplation; but this thought is only the last refuge of the spirit
against a material storm. He is not one of those who would go into the