they had missed him. Apparently not, for they were
moving to the right; that meant that they were working
round the hill. It would be fairly dark on the far
side of the hill; all the better, his absence would go
unnoticed.
Climb free of the shell hole and creep down the
slope — how easy it was when one's body obeyed one.
His body had detached itself from him all day; his
body had been unspeakably cruel; and cowardly too,
it had saved itself, killing others in order that it might
live — Oh, most hateful yet pitiful life of the body.
But how peaceful it was on this wide, quiet plain; the
air smelt sweet like the air in Provence. Perhaps wild
lavender grew near this plain, perhaps the hillsides
were covered with maquis.
Dead men ... it was better to die than to kill.
Two dead men lying stiffly side by side with their
arms and legs sprawled out in the moonlight. Never
mind, it is over now, it is past, you are dead — it is
better to die than to kill. There is only one fear, if
God also is dead. ... Do you think that perhaps it
was you who killed God? Or was it a Provencal
peasant called Christophe? Never mind, it is over
for you now, it is past. Christophe lives and his soul
is one terrible wound ... do you think that it may
have been he who killed you?
But could God be dead when the night was so
blessed and filled with an inexpressible peace — with a
peace that seemed to pass all understanding? What
if a soldier should die for the world, for the sake of
the gospel of peace, would they mourn him? Would
they turn from their wars? € We have slain a just man.
. . / But someone had already preached the gospel
of peace and been slain ... a man who was born
in Judea. ... In Judea, it was, that they had cru-
cified him. Jesus, who had been born in Bethlehem;
yes, and Anfos had carved Him a lamb for Christmas,
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