"It is He," whispered the priest. "His sorrow was greater than mine. Lord, I believe." He knew nothing more save that a great peace had suddenly stolen around him. VIII The Broken Hearted "ONE OF THE SOLDIERS WITH A SPEAR PIERCED HIS SIDE" VIII The Broken Hearted "I'll get that man if I die for it," said the soldier. "He's found the one position in the lines from which he can fire into our trenches." "It's easier said than done," remarked his comrade, "and the minute you cross that spot you come within his range. He'll put a bullet through you before you can level a rifle or press a trigger." "I'll not go that way," said the man. "What is your plan?" "You know that salient yonder on the right? I'm going out of the trench there." "When?" "Now. I'll wrap myself in white. That little run of coppice will cover me until I get within a few feet of him, then I'll have to chance it." "Wish I could help you, old man. I'd like to get that man. He's shot six of the best fellows in the company and--" "You can help me by making a diversion to attract his attention. Keep him looking at that alley." A few moments later the soldier shrouded in white crept out of the trench and noiselessly rolled down the slope to the bushes. The snow was deep on the ground. There was no touch of color about the soldier. He even thrust his rifle under the linen in which he had wrapped himself. Outside the shelter of the trenches the wind blew with terrific force. It was terribly cold. He had discarded his overcoat for freedom of motion. Only his indomitable resolution kept him alive. He locked his jaws together to keep his teeth from chattering. The ice-covered snow under his bare hands almost blistered the flesh as he crept along. He intended to use the bayonet. If he shot the man he was stalking alarm would be given and he would be riddled with bullets before he got back. He was willing to give a life for a life if it were necessary, but he was reluctant to do so if it could be avoided. Cold steel would be better. Cold steel! He smiled grimly. It would need some hot blood to take the chill off the bayonet at the end of his rifle. Slowly, almost holding his breath lest he be noticed, he edged his way along. He had plenty of time for thought. This was not so easy a job as he had fancied, not the physical part, but the mental strain. He could shoot a man who was shooting at him, he could batter a man over the head who was trying to do the same to him, but this stalking a man in cold blood was different somehow. Cold blood! He laughed soundlessly at his recurrent fancy. He went a little more slowly. Finally he stopped to consider.