armies? Was he merely a lout or something worse--the prototype of
our Conscientious Objector: a coward who disguised his cowardice with
moral scruples?

And this was Joan's room--a cell, with a narrow slit at the end
through which one gained a glimpse of the church. Before this slit she
had often knelt while the angels drifted from the belfry like doves
to peer in on her. The place was sacred. How many nights had she spent
here with girlish folded hands, her face ecstatic, the cold eating
into her tender body? I see her blue for lack of charity, forgotten,
unloved, neglected--the symbol of misunderstanding and loneliness.
They told her she was mad. She was a laughing stock in the village.
The world could find nothing better for her to do than driving sheep
through the bitter woodlands; but God found time to send his angels.
Yes, she was mad--mad as Christ was in Galilee--mad enough to save
others when she could not save herself. How nearly the sacrifice of
this most child-like of women parallels the sacrifice of the most
God-like of men! Both were born in a shepherd community; both forewent
the humanity of love and parenthood; both gave up their lives that the
world might be better; both were royally apparelled in mockery; both
followed their visions; for each the price of following was death.
She, too, was despised and rejected; as a sheep before her shearers is
dumb, so she opened not her mouth.

That is all there is to see at Domrémy; three starveling, stone-paved
rooms, a crumbling church, a garden full of dead leaves, an old
dog growing mangy in his kennel and the wind-swept cathedral of the
woodlands. The soul of France was born there in the humble body of a
peasant-girl; yes, and more than the soul of France--the gallantry of
all womanhood. God must be fond of His peasants; I think they will be