"If it is in my power."
"Young man, don't you feel the hellishness of the thought?"
"Yes," replied Bob, "I shudder at the thought of it."
"Then my advice to you is—desert. When you get well enough, get out of France and come to America where you can live in peace. Yes, I know that sounds bad, but then I hate war; it just puts back the clock of the world; it crucifies our Lord afresh."
Bob looked at the other's face attentively, and he saw immediately that it was the face of a strong man. There was no suggestion of the fanatic about it; rather, it was sane and sincere.
"Then you believe in peace—peace at any price?" was Bob's query.
"I guess that is so; I guess there is nothing under heaven worth making hell for, and that is what I have seen these last few weeks. I haven't been right up to the fighting-line—I haven't been allowed—but I have seen enough to make my heart bleed."
"I agree with every word you say," and Bob's voice was almost tremulous.
"Then why are you a soldier?"
"Look here, Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob. "Supposing that the French and the English and the Belgians and the Russians were all to disarm, what would happen, do you think?"