He tells us to love one another, for our wounds are
His wounds. . . , Look, I am unarmed because I
am you and you are me, we are one and the same
and that one is Christ, and Christ is the Indestructible
Compassion. God so loves the world that He gives
Himself. . . .'
They had torn the silver rood from his grasp.
There were five of them, ragged and starving men
demented by blood and appalled by defeat. And no
word of it all had they understood — he had spoken
to them in his Provencal language. They surrounded
him, dragging him to the ground, then they spat in
his face and one of them struck him. And they
stripped off his shabby and war-stained clothes,
wrenching them roughly away from his body; and all
the while they spat in his face, and one after another
they cursed him and struck ham. For a moment he
tightened his splendid muscles, flinging off the fore-
most of his tormentors; then he suddenly lay quiet
under their hands and they heard him speaking as
though to himself: 'I am the Indestructible Com-
passion.3
Someone had opened a door quite near him; he
could smell the familiar fragrance of timber, and the
pungent odour of planks newly planed. He thought:
I am home again in Saint Loup; I am glad to be
back with my mother and father. Soon I shall see
that very old woman: I am going to be taken to see her
by Goundran.5 And he closed his eyes, smiling con-
tentedly; so happy it was to be once more a child, so
happy and guiltless and safe it was to be waiting there
for the coming of Goundran.
A man had passed in through that open door and
had come out again, having found what he needed.
They had locked the door; Christophe lay wondering
why — his father so seldom locked his workshop. They
were lifting him up. He was heavy to move. They were
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