Christophe signed himself with the cross of his
Lord, then he struck his breast with the strokes of
contrition: 'My God, I have turned You away many
times because I feared, and once I denied You. And
my hands are guilty ... do not look at them, Lord.
Have pity and do not look at my hands, only show
me how I may make reparation. Lord, I am not
any more afraid. . . .* And even as he spoke the
Presence moved nearer.
And now It seemed to engulf him entirely, the while
It was being Itself engulfed and drawn into the fleshly
form.of Its creature. At that moment Christophe
knew all the sorrows of the world, all the sorrow of
God, but also the joy of God's selfless and all-embracing
love, in that terrible, that triumphant communion.
* * *
He had thrown away his rifle and was walking
through the moonlight on a track that led over the
plain to the northward. He was taking no heed where
his feet should tread, yet he knew that somewhere
beyond lay a well, and that once long ago he had
drunk of its water. He was holding the silver rood in
his hands. He had slipped the chain of it from his neck
and was holding the cross up before his face, a small
cross and yet it seemed strangely heavy. He had
borne such a burden as this once before, but then it
had rested upon his scourged shoulder.
The moon had dropped behind the low hills; it
was dark yet he neither faltered nor stumbled. He
remembered this darkness that came prior to the dawn;
it was chilly and always intensely silent. But where
were they, those whom he had come forth to seek
bearing the silver rood in his hands? Surely they could
not have fled away in fear before this emblem of
peace? Follow , . . he must follow until he found
them.
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