We entered the gate into the garden, the American soldier, the
children and I together. The little girl, with that wistful confidence
that all French children show for men in khaki, slipped her grubby
little paw into my hand. I expect Joan was often grubby like that.

Brown winter leaves strewed the path. The grass was bleached and dead.
At our approach an old sheep-dog rattled his chain and looked out of
his kennel. He was shaggy and matted with years. His bark was so
weak that it broke in the middle. He was a Rip Van Winkle of a
sheep-dog--the kind of dog you would picture in a fairy-tale. One
couldn't help feeling that he had accompanied the shepherd girl and
had kept the flock from straying while she spoke with her visions.
All those centuries ago he had seen her ride away--ride away to save
France--and she had not come back. All through the centuries he had
waited; at every footstep on the path he had come hopefully out from
his kennel, wagging his tail and barking ever more weakly. He would
not believe that she was dead. And it was difficult to believe it in
that ancient quiet. If ever France needed her, it was now.

Across my memory flashed the words of a dreamer, prophetic in the
light of recent events, "Daughter of Domrémy, when the gratitude of
thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead.
Call her, King of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by the
apparitors to come and receive a robe of honour, but she will not be
found. When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen,
shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up her
all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf
five centuries."