The soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what else to do. They sat
down on a mossy bank beside the spring, and while the blue smoke of
their cigarettes went drifting under the little trees the priest began:

"My name is Antoine Courcy. I am the cure of Darney, a village among
the Reaping Hook Hills, a few leagues south from here. For twenty-five
years I have reaped the harvest of heaven in that blessed little field.
I am sorry to leave it. But now this war, this great battle for freedom
and the life of France, calls me. It is a divine vocation. France has
need of all her sons to-day, even the old ones. I cannot keep the love
of God in my heart unless I follow the love of country in my life. My
younger brother, who used to be the priest of the next parish to mine,
was in the army. He has fallen. I am going to replace him. I am on my
way to join the troops--as a chaplain, if they will; if not, then as a
private. I must get into the army of France or be left out of the host
of heaven."

The soldier had turned his face away and was plucking the lobes from a
frond of fern. "A brave resolve, Father," he said, with an ironic note.
"But you have not yet told me what brings you off your road, to this
place."

"I will tell you," replied the priest, eagerly; "it is the love of
Jeanne d'Arc, the Maid who saved France long ago. You know about her?"

"A little," nodded the soldier. "I have learned in the school. She was
a famous saint."

"Not yet a saint," said the priest, earnestly; "the Pope has not yet