than the rest.

The man's arm fell. The room was empty after all. He stared at the
little shoe. Was it somewhere well with the child, with its mother?
Unbuttoning his tunic he thrust the little shoe within, over his heart.
He straightened up. Away off on the road a bugle call rang out above the
tumult. He turned away, seized his rifle, shouldered it, stepped rapidly
toward his regiment and his duty.

VII

The Thorn Crowned

"THE SOLDIERS PLATTED A CROWN OF THORNS AND PUT IT ON HIS HEAD"

VII

The Thorn Crowned

It was ghastly cold in the ruined church. It had been warm enough there
during the day, but the fire that had gutted it had died like the young
acolyte, like the aged sacristan, the venerable mother, the sweet young
novice, the women who had sought shelter there in vain. Neither the
dignity of age nor the sweetness of maidenhood nor the innocence of
youth nor the sanctity of profession had availed.

The old priest was glad they were dead. Life after what they had
suffered had been unthinkable. He thanked God for that oblivion. He
wished that he, too, might die in that violated shrine where he had
peacefully ministered for so long a time. They had taken the flock, the
shepherd must follow. He should have led.

He had fought, oh, he had played the man for the honor of the poor lambs
committed to him. Had he done right? Should he not have stood dumb
before the shearers? They had shot him and stabbed him and beaten him
into insensibility. The last thing he had heard was the shriek of one
woman, the piteous appeal of another. They thought he was dead, but he
was living. Why had he not died?

How could God be so cruel? This was war. This ruined sanctuary, these
broken men and women who had sought only to serve Him! Was there a God
indeed? Faith, hope, what were they? Assurance, trust? Words, words! Ah,
how he suffered.

[Illustration: "It is He," whispered the priest. "His sorrow was
greater than mine."]

It was bitter cold and yet he burned with fever. The tremors of pain so
exquisite that they might almost be counted pleasure shot through his
ruined, torn, broken figure, yet he recked little of these. It was the
shame, the shame. He had been zealous for the Lord of Hosts. There was
no God. Men were not made in any image save that of hell. He could not
move hand or foot, but he could see. He could speak. He could curse God
and die.

As his lips framed that anathema he saw vaguely the fi