canny after the day, but no one could tell when it might
be broken. They kept together as best they could, though
each man was expected to use his own wits and par-
ticularly his own observation. A Syrian slipped and
fell with a thud, it sounded like a cavalry charge; the
men held their breath and stood motionless. Then
the Sergeant hiked the Syrian onto his feet with a
whispered oath, and once more they moved forward.

It was'while they were climbing the side of a slope
that Ghristophe found himself dropping behind them,
found himself treading with infinite care, scarcely
breathing lest someone should turn and observe him,
and he wondered why he was doing these things. His
brain seemed confused: CI shall get lost/ he thought
Then quite suddenly: 'I am already lost, there is
nothing left of me any more — there is nothing left
of Christophe but pity.3

Pity. All his life he had known it, but never until
now had he known it completely, for now it was
clutching him by the soul; his soul was shaken and
rent with pity. Gentle yet terrible it clutched his soul.
There was no escape, for it would not let go. It had
sprung upon him from the grief of the night, from the
torn and bleeding heart of the earth, from the pain of
those helpless and bleeding loodies; it was hurling
itself against his will, overcoming his will and possess-
ing his reason. Gentle yet terrible with gentleness
it wounded; his soul was a deep and gaping wound,
every wound that he had inflicted was there, the
many made one and as one beheld, and as one en-
dured, and as one repented; 'Forgive . . . forgive;'
he prayed desperately, ey°u whom I have caused to
suffer, forgive me/

He was crouching in a shell hole —how had it
happened? No matter, he must crane up and*see if
HH 481