For a long time the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed. His
shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his knees. He was
wrestling with himself.

"No," he cried, at last, "I cannot, I dare not tell you. Unless,
perhaps"--his voice faltered--"you could receive it under the seal of
confession? But no. How could you do that? Here in the green woods? In
the open air, beside a spring? Here is no confessional."

"Why not?" asked Father Courcy. "It is a good place, a holy place.
Heaven is over our heads and very near. I will receive your confession
here."

The soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest pronounced the sacred
words. The soldier began his confession:

"I, Pierre Duval, a great sinner, confess my fault, my most grievous
fault, and pray for pardon." He stopped for a moment and then
continued, "But first I must tell you, Father, just who I am and where
I come from and what brings me here."

"Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be
simple and very frank."

"Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant country
of the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My faith, but that is a
pretty land, full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm there is
one of the prettiest and one of the best, though it is small. It was