been proved by the warrior-saints many times/ And
Christophe would find no answer. .
But one day as they sat in the Public Garden, he
heard himself speaking with a sudden violence that
sprang from the misery in his heart: 'Jan, why are
they making murderers of us? Why are they driving
us out to kill?3
Jan frowned: *I do not understand your meaning —
to me it seems that you speak very strangely. I am
going to fight of my own accord, as every man should
when his cause is righteous.'
'War can never be righteous/ said Christophe.
And now his face was white, his voice shaken. 'God is
wounded, every hour He endures fresh torments.
Because of our war He is covered with wounds. Were
it possible I would refuse to serve, I would tear this
uniform off my back, I would break my bayonet over
my knee. . * .'
'You mean,5 and Jan's voice came quiet and stern;
'you mean that you would refuse to serve France.9
'Before all things I would serve God/ Christophe
answered.
Their eyes met, Christophers pale and bright and
tormented, Jan's dark and disturbed by his rising
anger. Then a fearful thought struck like a lash on
Jan's mind — ah, but no, not Christophe, the man he
loved. . . .
'Come,' he said gruffly, 'our time is up. And
listen; be careful of what you say—these are days when
the very stones have ears.'
In spite of his misery Christophe smiled: 'I am not
afraid of dying in battle/ he told him.
§2
The weeks dragged on. They were always the same
for Christophe, methodical, active, hopeless. His
441