It was a delicious morning, brilliant with sunshine, but cool and fresh
and inspiring. The army was in great form, and fine to see, as it
uncoiled from its lair fold by fold, and stretched away on the final
march of the peaceful Coronation Campaign.

Joan, on her black horse, with the Lieutenant-General and the personal
staff grouped about her, took post for a final review and a good-by; for
she was not expecting to ever be a soldier again, or ever serve with
these or any other soldiers any more after this day. The army knew this,
and believed it was looking for the last time upon the girlish face of
its invincible little Chief, its pet, its pride, its darling, whom it had
ennobled in its private heart with nobilities of its own creation, call
her "Daughter of God," "Savior of France," "Victory's Sweetheart," "The
Page of Christ," together with still softer titles which were simply
naive and frank endearments such as men are used to confer upon children
whom they love. And so one saw a new thing now; a thing bred of the
emotion that was present there on both sides. Always before, in the
march-past, the battalions had gone swinging by in a storm of cheers,
heads up and eyes flashing, the drums rolling, the bands braying p‘ans of
victory; but now there was nothing of that. But for one impressive sound,
one could have closed his eyes and imagined himself in a world of the
dead. That one sound was all that visited the ear in the summer
stillness--just that one sound--the muffled tread of the marching host.
As the serried masses drifted by, the men put their right hands up to
their temples, palms to the front, in military salute, turning their eyes
upon Joan's face in mute God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping them
there while they could. They still kept their hands up in reverent salute
many steps after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her handkerchief
to her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion crinkle along the
faces of the files.