“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 to 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 while you think of forsaking France. Put that thought away from you, do penance for it, and you will be absolved from your great sin.” Pierre turned over and lay looking up at the priest's face and at the blue sky with white cloude drifting across it. He sighed. “Ah, if that could only be! But I have not the strength. It is impossible.” “All things are possible to him that believeth. Strength will come. Perhaps Jeanne d'Arc herself will help you.” “She would never speak to a man like me. She is a great saint, very high in heaven.” “She was a farmer's lass, a peasant like yourself. She would speak to you, gladly and kindly, if you saw her, and in your own language, too. Trust her.” “But I do not know enough about her.” “Listen, Pierre. I have thought for you. I will appoint the first part of your penance. You shall take the risk of being recognized and caught. You shall go down to the village and visit the places that belong to her--her basilica, her house, her church. Then you shall come back here and wait until you know--until you surely know what you must do. Will you promise this?”