spit upon it. If you are going to Switzerland now you are leaving
her forever. You can never go back to Josephine again. You are a
deserter. She would cast you out, coward!"

The broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he were dead. Then
he rose slowly to his feet, with a pale, set face. He put his hand
behind his back and drew out a revolver. "It is true," he said
slowly, "I am a coward. But not altogether such a coward as you
think, Father. It is not merely death that I fear. I could face
that, I think. Here, take this pistol and shoot me now! No one
will know. You can say you shot a deserter, or that I attacked you.
Shoot me now, Father, and let me out of this trouble."

Father Courcy looked at him with amazement. 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