The Angel of the Marne

THE QUAINT OLD MARKET-PLACE of Rouen basked drowsily in the sunshine of a late afternoon in May. Nearby, a group of people were taking their dinner at one of the little sidewalk cafés, happily undisturbed by the passers-by. Overhead arched the blue, serene sky of Normandy.

Such was the scene of my chance meeting with Captain Philippe Roget, famous war ace. I had not seen him since the Legion held its convention “over there,” and then we had chatted for only a few minutes, for we had never been intimate. During the War I had held the minor post of liaison officer at the Headquarters of Captain Roget’s brigade.

In view of the fact that I had arrived in France on business hardly twenty-four hours before, the Captain was probably the last person I had expected to see.

Yet there he was, left sleeve hanging empty, the right hand clutching a bouquet of magnificent roses, whose fragrance scented the air all about us. At the sight of me he uttered an exclamation of delight, and, laying the flowers upon a nearby table, gripped my hand in his with utmost cordiality.

“But how does this happen, my dear Captain Sewell?” he inquired. “Let us sit down. I have an hour, and intended dining here. And you?”

I confessed that I had not dined, and we took possession of one of the little tables without more ado.

“But you have not told me what brings you here,” said Roget, when we had given our order.

I explained my business briefly, adding that I was to see an important customer of my firm the following morning.

“And you?” I asked. “Those flowers give you away, Captain Roget. I hope the lady is very charming?”

There was a strange glint in Roget’s eyes.

“The most charming and wonderful woman in the world,” he answered. “One whom I am proud to love and serve.”

“That’s good,” I answered lightly. “I congratulate you with all my heart, my dear Captain.” My tone belied my really deep sincerity, for I knew that the woman who had won Captain Philippe Roget’s heart was fortunate indeed.

Tall, handsome, in spite of the grey at his temples, he wore his empty sleeve like a badge of courage and seemed, in every way, a hero out of romance. During the War he had performed deeds of incredible daring, including the one that had cost him his arm. In the first days of the conflict, when the French, surprised by the German invasion of Belgium, were falling back in confusion all along the frontiers, Roget had been entrusted with dispatches whose delivery meant the salvation of the French armies; their non-delivery, ruin and defeat.

They were sent to General Joffre by the commander of a French army corps, already cut off on all sides and offering hopeless resistance to overwhelming numbers. They contained vital information as to the disposition of the German forces which seemed likely to entrap half the armies of the Republic.

Alone in his plane, Philippe Roget had been sent by night from the encircled troops, with orders to reach French Headquarters or die in the attempt.

Philippe had reached Headquarters and placed the communication in the hands of Joffre, thereby making it possible for the scattered French armies to unite into the line that later snatched victory out of defeat at the Battle of the Marne.

Later, as a one-armed flyer—for France was in urgent need of so brave a son—he had covered himself with glory, escaping death time after time by a veritable miracle.

So, looking at him, I felt that this lady for whom he was bringing his roses was certainly to be congratulated.

As we ate, we talked for the most part of impersonal affairs, guardedly skirting all references to the War—as ex-soldiers do when they meet. So much is taken for granted; so many experiences have been identical, that there is usually surprisingly little to talk about. Besides, Captain Philippe’s thoughts were still on the lady—I could tell by the way he kept glancing at the flowers.

“I hope I’m not detaining you,” I said at length. “This engagement of yours——”

“No, not at all, Captain Sewell,” he answered. “She is in no hurry, and I am not of much consequence to her.”

“But surely you must be,” I returned. I thought he must be jesting. But there was no levity in Philippe Roget’s clear blue eyes.

“It is an old affair,” he answered absently. Then he turned toward me. “I have never told you of my experiences when I was sent from the front with those dispatches for General Joffre,” he said. “I have rarely ever spoken of them. Do you believe in miracles, Sewell?”

I hesitated. I remembered that Captain Philippe had been what few of the army officers were in those days, a fervently religious man. I did not know what to say.

“Modern science seems to be taking a more tolerant attitude toward the supernatural,” I parried.

“But suppose we do not call it the supernatural,” suggested Philippe. “Suppose we regard it as coming within the domain of natural law, of science—all these things that are slowly forcing belief upon the sceptics and materialists of the past generation?”

“Spiritualism and table tipping, for instance?” I ventured.

A look of unutterable disgust came over Philippe Roget’s clear-cut features.

“Bah, pranks of dead diabolists!” he retorted. “Throwers of pots and pans in haunted kitchens! No, those are not miracles, Sewell. I spoke of something different—the direct intervention, by Divine permission, of the souls of the illustrious dead!”

I was silent. Philippe Roget was sitting up very straight and looking across at the sculptured figure of a woman in the centre of the square. The statue seemed to have taken on a sort of radiance in the translucent light of the summer evening.

“I was a sceptic when I started on that mission, Sewell,” said Philippe, turning to me again. “But I arrived at my journey’s end convinced that I had been used by an all-powerful Being for the salvation of France and the glory of God. I should like your permission to tell you about it.”

This is what he told me:

Those last days in the Vosges were terrible ones for us. We had gone forward with so much confidence, not knowing that the utmost valour is impotent against machine-guns and high-powered modern artillery. A third of our army had been killed. The bodies strewed the earth everywhere. The Germans were closing in on us, and a reconnaissance by the cavalry showed that the enemy had cut off all our roads of retreat.

In that expedition the flower of our horsemen were mowed down by hidden machine-guns. It was not war, it was massacre!

There were only six of us aviators with the army corps, for nobody had guessed the part that airplanes were destined to play. Three of our fliers, venturing too low, had been shot down by German cannon. A fourth had lost his life in combat with a whole squadron of Taubes. There remained only myself and another, and it was we whom the General summoned to him that day.

“You are to fly to French Headquarters with dispatches, Captain Roget,” he said to me. “Lieutenant Arnault, with his plane, will accompany you. His mission will be to protect you against the attacks of hostile aircraft. He will sacrifice his life to that end, if necessary. But you yourself will avoid all action, if possible; and if he is shot down, you will make no attempt to avenge him.”

“Bien, mon Général,” I answered. It was all a part of the game of war, and one had to obey.

“We do not know where Joffre’s headquarters are, but you will fly to——” He then gave me detailed instructions. “These dispatches will inform him that we are cut off by a force seven times our superior. Furthermore, they will make it clear to him that the main German thrust is coming in this direction, and that the enemy are overwhelmingly strong. If these dispatches do not reach Joffre, he cannot learn the enemy’s strategical position—until it is too late.

“I wish it might be possible for you to wait until night, but every hour’s delay makes our position more dangerous.” The General handed me the package. “If you are shot down, let your last act be to destroy these papers. I have given you the gist of the information they contain, so that, if you yourself manage to escape, you can transmit it to the commander-in-chief. That is all, gentlemen. You will start immediately.”

Lieutenant Arnault and I saluted, and left the office. There was no tarmac, not even a level field for taking off. All that was to come later in the War. We had just three mechanics, and as quickly as possible they got our two Nieuports into flying condition. The Anzani engines were tuned up till they were warm and the tanks filled to the brim with petrol. At last we were off, rising above the field of battle.

What a field! At a height of five thousand feet we first began to see the disposition of the enemy forces. They were all around us. Puffs of white smoke showed where the ring of artillery was closing in. Here were hastily dug trenches, with swaths of dead lying before them. There we could see where the battle was still in progress; long lines of lorries traversed the roads, with the German shells bursting beside them; and columns of soldiers, wearing the blue tunics and red trousers of those early days, were moving forward.

Almost immediately we saw four Taubes rising from somewhere along the German lines and making toward us.

The Nieuport was at that time reputed the fastest plane in the air, and we had a good chance of outflying our opponents. Though we were both burning with eagerness to turn and fight, the recollections of our instructions restrained us. I headed my machine westward, and Lieutenant Arnault took up his flying position behind and above me, ready to protect me.

I let the enemy overhaul us slightly, confident in the flying powers of my machine. Meanwhile I let the engine warm up to the limit; then I opened the throttle to the full extent and rushed on. Two minutes later I looked back and saw that we had increased our lead over the Taubes. There was nothing to fear. I laughed exultantly. We were safe now.

But not for long! Two minutes later three black dots appeared out of the clouds a mile ahead of us. They came down in a swift glide, and I saw the hated stripes and crosses of the Germans on their fuselages as the sun glinted on them.

We were cut off; but now we were two to three. Our Nieuports were among the first French planes to be equipped with machine-guns and if we had to fight, we would be able to give a very good account of ourselves.

As the two foremost Taubes shot toward us, Arnault rushed past me overhead and engaged in a brisk machine-gun duel with them. Firing at pointblank range, it was almost impossible for anyone to miss. I shouted as I saw one of the Germans side-slip, and then go weaving down in a steep nose-dive that ended on the ground nearly two miles beneath.

The next instant flames burst from Lieutenant Arnault’s motor. I saw him frantically leaning forward in the cockpit; then, to my horror, the flames leaped toward him.

His end was only a matter of moments now, but he sat there, still working the controls, while the Nieuport seemed to stagger in the air like a wounded bird, and then, nosing down, followed the German to destruction.

The Taube that had shot Arnault down followed, still pouring lead into its doomed victim. I do not blame the German. Those were the instructions that the airmen of both sides received, although many of us French and you Americans refused to fire upon a stricken enemy. I saw poor Arnault fling up his hand in a last gesture of defeat.

Then a wonderful thing happened. The upward rush of air drove the flames away from my comrade, so that they streamed up behind the descending plane like a comet’s tail. Suddenly I saw Arnault raise his gun and aim straight into the fuselage of his pursuer, who, thinking him done for, had swooped perilously close. Fearfully burned, and doubtless riddled with lead, Arnault had proved himself a true soldier of France.

The pilot of the second plane slumped in the cockpit. The Taube dropped sidewise, and began nose-diving after the Nieuport. I saw the two doomed ships weave their headlong course downward until they disappeared in the wake of the first one.

Arnault was dead, but he had taken two German planes with him, and he had died for me.

That was my thought as, mad for revenge, I swung to meet the third Taube, which was now swooping down upon me. I had been told to avoid a fight if possible, but it was no longer possible, and even had it been, I doubt whether I could have obeyed. There are some situations where the elemental human instinct takes command; and when a man’s comrade has been killed almost at his side—well, that is one of them!

A shower of bullets cut holes in my left wing. I banked, and received another burst that shattered my windshield and swept half the instruments from the board.

Immelmann had not then invented the famous manoeuvre, but I made it, my friend—made it because I could see no other way to escape destruction. As that cursed Boche rode my tail and splintered rudder and elevators, I made a steep zoom upward and a wing-over turn that reversed the situation and brought him within my range.

One blast from my gun, and I had sent him to flaming hell!

The road was clear, but by this time the four Taubes that had started in pursuit of us were opening fire. So engrossed had I been with my last encounter that the first I was aware of them was when I felt a sharp sting in my arm and saw the blood running. I glanced back, and realized that I had no chance save in instant flight. I thought of nothing now save my precious dispatches.

The mad rage died in me. I shot forward with wide-open throttle, though not before a second bullet had scored its way through my shoulder. Ahead of me lay a heavy cloud-bank. I made it, shot through it, zoomed, and saw that my pursuers were hopelessly behind me. Beneath lay the heavy wooded and mountainous country of the Vosges. Somewhere on the other side were the French battle-lines, or perhaps more Germans—who knew?

I was losing blood fast; my head was dizzy; I knew that I could not keep on much longer. If I encountered another Taube, I was doomed, for my left arm was helpless, and it was all I could do to manipulate the controls. Fortunately it was well on in the afternoon, and the day was dying out in a drizzle of rain and fog which made the visibility poor.

Somewhere on the other side of those mountains—but I could not go on. I must land, rest and try to bandage my wounds. Otherwise I should never be able to reach French Headquarters.

Underneath me I saw a break in the forest. A little mountain village seemed to be nestling in a clearing; there was the spire of a tall church, rising into the air.

I circled, side-slipped, exerting all my will-power to prevent lapsing into unconsciousness. Somehow I succeeded in making the landing on a bumpy field not far from the church, with a fringe of forest between myself and the village, and with the plane still in serviceable condition.

I groped for my first-aid bandage, but instead, I must have fainted, for I knew nothing for some time thereafter.

It was the caressing touch of a soft hand upon my forehead that brought me back to consciousness. I opened my eyes and stared. A young girl was bending over me, her face transfigured with such infinite compassion that I could only marvel at its wondrous sweetness and serenity. Surprising, too, was the taste of some cordial on my lips.

I looked about me. I was sitting with my back against the fuselage of the plane, which lay at the extreme edge of the woods, hidden from observation by a tall hedge which offered an effective barrier to any one passing along the road near the church. It almost seemed to me that the girl must have wheeled the machine into that position, for I had come down out in the open.

I looked at my companion again. It was dusk and I could just make out that she was dressed in some sort of peasant costume. She was not a peasant type, however, but looked rather like the daughter of some small landed proprietor in the vicinity.

“You are safe here,” she whispered, as I opened my lips to speak, “but you must be careful. The Germans are in possession of the village beyond that strip of trees. Fortunately they feel entirely secure and it is not likely that the noise of your motor—if they heard it at all—has caused any alarm.”

I groaned. The invaders must have penetrated very far into the heart of France.

As if she understood what was passing in my mind, the girl smiled.

“France has been invaded many times before,” she said, “but she has always conquered in the end. Have no fear! The Boche will meet with a terrible blow that will send him reeling back to the Rhine. But ah, my poor country!”

She pressed her hand to her heart, and her face was the picture of grief as she spoke. All the woes of my poor country seemed mirrored there.

I was feeling much stronger, and looking down, I saw that my wounds had been bandaged. As the cordial the girl had given me began to take effect, life coursed through me again and I thought at once of my dispatches.

“I owe you a thousand thanks, Mademoiselle,” I said. “But now I must get on. I am bearing important dispatches for General Joffre. I have lost too much time already. Do you know how far the German lines extend?”

“Far into the heart of France,” she answered. “The outposts are at Vitry.”

“But that is a hundred miles away!” I cried.

“The Boche has advanced fast. But have courage, my friend. Five miles beyond Vitry you will find the French outposts, and twelve miles back of there, at Villerons-sur-Yser, General Joffre sleeps tonight.”

“How do you know?” I cried.

She smiled sadly.

“The Boches in our village are indiscreet,” she answered. “They think we poor peasants are too simple to understand them, especially when they speak their own language. This is the headquarters of an army corps, and little goes on here that is unknown to us. Also, we have means of communicating with our friends.”

“I thank you a thousand times, Mademoiselle,” I answered. “Now I must be getting on.”

But I stopped, frozen with horror, for at that moment I heard the tramp of feet, a sharp, guttural command—and then I saw a whole company of German soldiers emerge from the forest and move along the road in marching order.

I made a quick movement toward the plane. My first impulse was to try to start it before the column was upon us, though I knew beforehand the futility of such an attempt.

But the girl restrained me. Laying a gentle hand upon my arm, she seemed to arrest all my powers of movement.

Paralyzed with fear for my beloved country, I could only stand there beside her, watching those men in the hated uniform moving, moving toward us. The road ran close beside the hedge of furze, and it was not so dark but that they were bound to see us, when they turned their eyes in our direction.

Tramp, tramp! At least we might have lain down, grovelled on the earth, hoping thus to escape notice. But the girl stood proudly erect, her sensitive nostrils dilating with scorn as she watched the invaders. And, even though the paralysis that had momentarily gripped my muscles had passed away—even though everything was at stake—I could not crouch.

I, a French soldier, could not grovel on the ground to escape the notice of those arrogant invaders, marching, marching on, their feet making heavy contact with the earth, the metal parts of their equipment clanking as they moved. And so I waited for death, too proud to hide or run.

The Germans were only a few feet away, on the opposite side of the hedge, and still we two stood there. The girl’s hands were clenched, and her face now bore a look of inspired scorn, almost as if she had been some ancient prophetess.

Then from the trees appeared the form of an officer on horseback. He took up his position in advance of the column, on the side nearer to us—so near that scarcely six feet separated us from him. I gripped my pistol, and, as I did so, my companion turned her face and looked at me. She smiled and shook her head ever so little.

The officer was abreast of us—merciful heaven, he was almost near enough to touch the girl!

Then the man turned his face, and I saw his eyes meet my companion’s.

He did not see her!

I saw him shiver and glare wildly about him, as his horse reared and snorted. He shouted and brought his whip down heavily upon the animal’s shoulders. It broke into a mad gallop, and so man and horse passed us, the man pulling at the reins and swearing, and the horse a-quiver, as if terrified by something more than the lash.

Tramp, tramp! The company was passing us. It was passing out of sight along the road. I looked at my companion. That gentle smile was on her lips again, and her eyes were raised to heaven.

Then, for the first time, a feeling of superstitious awe overcame me. Sceptic though I was, I wondered whether the girl had not invoked some divine power that had protected us.

I trembled. The reaction from our imminent danger almost unnerved me. I had feared for my companion, no less than for myself. I knew that, had she been discovered, she would have been shot, along with probably half her village.

She laid her hand upon my shoulder, and its caressing touch seemed to calm me.

“Yes, you must go, soldier of France,” she said. “But before you go, let us pray, here in the shadow of that great church yonder. It is a famous shrine, where many miraculous things have happened. Will you join your prayers with mine, for France?”

Looking into her clear eyes, I could not lie to her.

“Mademoiselle,” I stammered, “I must tell you—I am an unbeliever. That will shock you terribly——”

“No, Monsieur, it does not shock me at all,” she answered, though there was a wistful look on her face. “I know that many men, and women too, no longer believe. But Our Lord does not despise those who stumble helplessly in the darkness. One day He will bring them all to Himself. And——” Here her voice rang out like a silver flute, with astonishing force and rhythm, “He will work wonderful things for our beloved France. The invader shall be hurled back and brought low in the dust!

“Pray with me, soldier,” she said softly.

I knelt beside her on the damp meadow, and repeated the words that came from her lips. Simple and eloquent they were. A prayer that God would show His mercies to our beloved country, that right should triumph, that the dreadful flow of blood should cease as soon as His wrath was satisfied.…

And then she prayed for me—prayed that I might come safe through all the perils of the war, and that I should be led to acknowledge Him as the author of my being, and my salvation.

I confess my eyes were wet when we stood up. Something was stirring in me. I, who had hitherto scoffed at things spiritual, felt that a gate had been opened in me somewhere, that I was stumbling out of darkness into sunshine.

“Now, soldier!” said the girl.

I took her hands in mine.

“Mademoiselle, will you not tell me your name,” I asked, “so that, after the war is ended, I may find you again and thank you for your heroism? I shall mention it to General Joffre. Your name, please, and that of this village?”

That tremulous, faint smile played about her lips again.

“Monsieur, the praise of men means little,” she answered. “You will know me some day. But not—now. It is better that I should not answer your questions. Farewell, Monsieur.”

Her hands hovered above my head like a benediction. Then, with a new strength, as though my wounds did not exist, I leaped into the cockpit. The girl’s white fingers touched the propeller and the engine started with a roar. The next instant she was no longer there.

Dark though it had grown, I still could not believe that she had run from me. I should have seen her go.… No, she had vanished utterly.

I knew then—yes, I knew that she had been a spirit of good, sent by the Heavenly Powers to help a poor, wounded soldier, and to save France. All my scepticism fell from me. I uttered a silent prayer, asking forgiveness for my past doubts.

In a minute or two I opened the throttle wide enough to send the wheels over the furrows that acted as chocks. I taxied the length of the field, and took the air just as two German sentries came running out of the wood, shouting hoarse challenges.

I shouted back above the roaring motor, heard the snap of their rifles and felt a bullet fan my face. Then I was soaring high above the tree-tops and winging my way toward Vitry.

Late that night I descended at the headquarters of General Joffre. I had flown unmolested over regions infested by the invaders. I had seen squadrons of hostile planes aloft, but they must have thought it impossible that I could be an enemy, so far from my own base, for they had paid no attention to me.

I had flown high above belching cannon, over battlefields where Boche and Frenchman still contested in bitter frenzy. And so, at last, I had dropped miraculously at Villerons-sur-Yser.

Miraculously, I say, for, flying in the night, I had had nothing to guide me except the consciousness that I was not alone. Yes, even up there in the air I had had the sense of guidance.

Some unknown power seemed to direct my flight and a few minutes after I landed, I was standing in the presence of Joffre. He took my dispatches and read them.

His self-command was superb, for it would have been impossible for any Frenchman to have read those dispatches unmoved. They told him of a peril he had not suspected, and of the destruction of a part of his army; but they showed him the way to that concentration that was to save France at the Battle of the Marne.

He held an anxious discussion with his staff, seeming to have forgotten me. Unheeded, I stood there while messages were sent over the telephone, and motor cyclists went thundering off through the night. The feeling of strength that had sustained me had disappeared, now that my task was done, and I was feeling desperately weak.

Suddenly I grew aware that Joffre was speaking to me, and with an effort I stood upright at attention.

“You have been wounded, Captain Roget? You must go to the hospital and receive attention at once. Your deed shall not be forgotten.”

That was almost the last thing that I remembered. I must have collapsed, for I was only dimly conscious of being placed in an ambulance, of jolting mile after mile that night, and the next day, and the next night.

But afterward, when I opened my eyes to full consciousness again, to find myself a cripple (Philippe touched his empty sleeve), it was to receive the news of the glorious victory of the Marne.

My delivery of those dispatches had saved France, and I was not forgotten, as Joffre had promised.

But I could not accept praise for myself alone. I wanted to render homage to my protector, whether spirit or human. And that, strangely enough, was the most difficult thing in the world to do.

You see, all this time I had been wavering between two convictions. However sure I had been of the girl’s actual presence, I could not help believing at times that I must have been the victim of an hallucination due to my wounds. Nevertheless, I was convinced that the girl’s existence had not been a dream. I had seen her beyond doubt.

But to tell the highly sceptical French officers that I had been saved by a spirit would have been simply to invite ridicule. And, if the girl had been human, I did not know her name, nor the name of her village.

In time I became friendly with old Colonel Chabot, the commander of the hospital. To him I spoke of the affair, and of my perplexities. He was a sincerely religious man, graver than the ordinary type of soldier, and he heard my story in sympathetic silence.

“Never mind the girl for the moment, my dear Roget,” he said finally. “This village—can you not describe it?”

“Impossible,” I answered. “You see, it was dark, and it was hidden from me by the belt of trees. All I saw was the church.”

“Ah, yes, the church! Can you describe this church, then?”

I had thought that I had taken little enough notice of the church, but now, of a sudden, the whole appearance of it came back into my mind. I described it to him in detail; it was almost as if I was being prompted in what I said.

Chabot interrupted me to ask numerous questions, growing more and more excited the while. Suddenly he clapped me on the shoulder.

“Enough, my boy, enough!” he exclaimed. “Tell that to your priest—tell it to those who have the wit to understand, but do not tell it to the Government—not now!”

“But—but—what do you mean?” I stammered.

“I mean——” Coolly and quietly old Chabot explained the miracle.

That was the story that I gleaned from my erstwhile war comrade, Captain Philippe Roget, at the little café opposite the statue in the square in Rouen. But what Chabot had told him he did not explain to me.

“I shall show you in a few moments, my dear Sewell,” said Philippe. “Come, let us settle our bill, for it is growing late, and, as I told you, I have an appointment with a lady.”

“And I am willing to hazard,” I answered, “that the lady is the girl who saved you from the Boches in that unknown village. I’ll wager she turned out to be no spirit, but a girl of flesh and blood, who slipped away from you in the darkness, once her mission was done.

“And further,” I added, warming up to my theme, and feeling the romance of it, “she was probably a lady of gentle breeding, who had somehow become entrapped in this village of the Vosges, and, fearing to disclose her rank to the Germans, had lived there when they occupied the town, in the guise of a peasant, helping her country in that way.”

Philippe Roget smiled, an enigmatical smile that conveyed the impression that I was very wide of the mark. We settled the bill, and then he turned to me.

“Would you like to meet this lady of mine?” he asked, taking up his roses.

“With all my heart,” I answered. “I am sure she is in every way worthy of the homage you have paid her. And I hope that the day is not far distant when your loyalty will be rewarded.”

“You are very dense, my dear Sewell,” was all that Philippe answered.

With the roses in his right hand, he motioned me to join him, and together we walked forth into the softness of the May evening. The old houses about the square loomed up picturesquely in the twilight. I was thinking of the many famous persons who had lived in Rouen, of the stirring part the quaint town had played in history. The very air about us seemed astir with romance.…

The square was nearly empty, but there were a few persons passing to and fro, and clustered around the statue there was a little group of people, some of whom were kneeling. A woman in the garb of mourning, her hands clasped, was praying aloud in a quavering voice, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

As we drew nearer, I saw a young girl approach, make a genuflexion, and lay a handful of wild flowers at the feet of the sculptured figure.

Then I saw that the statue was wreathed with roses, lilies, hothouse flowers, and that its base was heaped with floral offerings.

Captain Philippe Roget took off his hat, and mechanically I did the same. Then, to my astonishment—for I had not yet guessed what his purpose was—he fell upon his knees, and reverently placed the spray of roses upon the base of the statue. His lips moved in prayer.

I stood there, watching him, and of a sudden the truth dawned upon me with almost blinding clarity. I watched in amazement, and I looked up at the noble face of the young girl chiselled in stone. I knew. Philippe Roget rose to his feet.

“That village I spoke of,” he said, “was named Domrémy.”

And this was May 30th—the day on which the English had burned Joan of Domrémy as a sorceress, on this very site—the Rouen marketplace—almost five hundred years before.

“You understand?” whispered Philippe to me.

“I understand,” I answered in a low voice.

“They call her the Guide of France,” he said quietly. “I believe that it was she who came to me in the hour of my country’s gravest peril, to save France through me—and to save my soul.”

And to that I was silent.