From the nook ahead of him in which the enemy had ensconced himself came a sudden rapid rattle of rifle-shots.  His friend back in the trench was doing his part.  The man was awake—­on the alert.  It would be something of a fair fight, he thought with some little satisfaction.  He surveyed the intervening space beyond the coppice.  The men in the trenches on both sides would be awake, too.  It would take him a few seconds to cross that space and get at the man he was stalking.  Could they shoot him before that?  There was some shelter where the enemy was.  If the stalker could get to that spot he would be protected for a moment from fire from the enemy’s trench.

It would take him a second or two to cross that space.  In a second or two what might happen?  Well, he would have to risk that.  At the very end of the coppice he gathered himself together and rose slowly to a crouching position.  Another rain of shots came from the nook; the man’s rifle would be empty, he must give him no chance to reload.  Now it would be a fair fight with the bayonet.

He threw aside the white draperies that impeded his legs and in half a dozen bounds the two men were face to face.

No shot had been fired.  Yes, the magazine of the man’s rifle was empty.  He heard the crunch of his enemy’s feet on the snow.  He rose to his feet, his bayoneted rifle extended.  The two barrels struck with terrific force.  The men swayed, drew back for another thrust, and they were suddenly aware of a mist-like figure between them, a figure draped in white, lightly, diaphanously.

They stood arrested, guns drawn back, and stared.  The figure slowly extended its arm, carrying drapery with it.  A man’s breast was bared.  There, over the heart, was a great gaping wound, fresh, as if a broad, heavy blade had pierced it.

There was a clatter on the ice as a gun dropped and another clatter as a similar weapon struck the stone opposite.  The two men bent forward, their hands outstretched.  They took a step as if to touch the figure and there was nothing there!  The hands met.  They clasped warmly in the cold against each other.

“My God, what was that?” said the stalker.

“I don’t know,” answered the other.

“A pierced side!”

“Was it—­”

“No.  It couldn’t be.”

“Well, we worship the same God and—­”

Ah, they were seen.  There were quick words of command from the trenches, a staccato of rifle-shots, and two bodies lay side by side, hands still clasped, while the snow reddened and reddened beneath them.

And it was Christmas eve.

IX

The Forgiver of Sins

“I say unto Thee until seventy Times seven”

IX

The Forgiver of Sins

“A Priest, for Christ’s sake, a priest,” moaned the man.