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
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.
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