Pierre turned over and lay looking up at the priest's face and at the
blue sky with white clouds drifting across it. He sighed. "Ah, if that
could only be! But I have not the strength. It is impossible."

"All things are possible to him that believeth. Strength will come.
Perhaps Jeanne d'Arc herself will help you."

"She would never speak to a man like me. She is a great saint, very
high in heaven."

"She was a farmer's lass, a peasant like yourself. She would speak to
you, gladly and kindly, if you saw her, and in your own language, too.
Trust her."

"But I do not know enough about her."

"Listen, Pierre. I have thought for you. I will appoint the first part
of your penance. You shall take the risk of being recognized and
caught. You shall go down to that village there and visit the places
that belong to her--her basilica, her house, her church. Then you shall
come back here and wait until you know--until you surely know what you
must do. Will you promise this?"

Pierre had risen and looked up at the priest with tear-stained face.
But his eyes were quieter. "Yes, Father, I can promise you this much
faithfully."

"Now I must go my way. Farewell, my son. Peace in war be with you." He
held out his hand.