head showed a great gash on his brow; blood streamed from his side, and both hands were pierced through. His face was livid and his great dark eyes looked like the eyes of a wounded deer. His hair was wet with blood and his thin auburn beard completed his resemblance to One whose effigy we well knew.
We looked at him spellbound.
"They know not what they do," said the wounded man, and he continued to mutter brokenly in German.
My mate seized my hand in both of his. "It is the Christus!" said he.
Stretcher bearers were now taking the disabled back to the ambulances behind our lines. I was unhurt and, after I had done what I could to make my pal comfortable, I went over to my late opponent and tried to help him. It was evident that his mind was wandering. In the ghastly light of the lamp his eyes shone with madness.
The dreadful thunder of the guns had begun again—a barrage of terror to keep the enemy from bringing up reserves.
"The storm!" whispered the wounded Christus. "It is God's anger! I am not worthy of the cross."
My mate sat propped against the pillar opposite, gazing pale and fascinated; other wounded men, British and German, leaned toward the
