"
"But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to seek you."
"Do you know me, then? How can I be one of yours?"
"Because you are a soldier of France and you are in trouble."
Pierre's head drooped. "A broken soldier," he muttered, "not fit
to speak to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear."
She threw back her head and laughed. "You speak very bad French.
There is no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are
afraid of it, you hate it. If you hate it, you will have nothing
to do with it. And if you have nothing to do with it, it cannot
touch you; it is nothing."
"But for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You had no fear when
you fought. You knew you would not be killed."
"I was no more sure of that than the other soldiers. Besides, when
they bound me to the stake at Rouen and kindled the fire around me
I knew very well that I should be killed. But there was no fear in
it. Only peace."
"Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not wounded and
broken."
"Four times I was wounded," she answered gravely.
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