ed.

We were now in the picturesque "valley of colors," whose winding trails
were trodden by the soldiers of Julius Caesar when "Omnis Gallia divisa
est in partes tres" was written.

With pulse beat quickened by thought of our hallowed pilgrimage nearing
its end, we rushed like a specter down the road, through winding vistas
of giant cottonwood and poplar; rounding a hill we came in full view of
Domremy, and, with a final burst of speed, rushed splashing, and all
a-thrilled with emotion, into its single street.

Drawing up in front of the church, that of St. Remi, Apostle of the
Franks, we were at once surrounded and curiously observed by a group of
children. "Are these children now to see a soldier, still crippled with
lumbago, or one the intercession of Joan has made whole?" This was the
question I soliloquized, as I started to excavate myself from the
mud-littered car!

My chauffeur eyed me askance; and the look of pleasure with which he
noted my evident recovery, told me he was as proud as I. The Saintly
Maid had wrought her cure completely and with generous finality.

At once we entered the Church. Five hundred years before Jacques and
Isabelle d'Arc had crossed that very threshold, carrying the precious
babe Joan to be baptized. The glowing ray of the sanctuary light
welcomed us, and, perhaps, turned to jewels the tears of joy and
reverence coursing our cheeks.

The rough hobble nails of our shoes rang alarmingly on the stone
pavement as we made our way up the hallowed aisle. On our knees before
the altar we literally cried our prayers.

Looking toward the lowly Tabernacle we felt that Jesus, the gentle
Master there present, was pleased with us. He seemed to look approvingly
upon us and to say, "My soldiers, rest here your weary head upon My
Heart."

At the very railing where we knelt, Joan had made her First Communion.
Just at our left on the Epistle side was the ancient font where she had
been cleansed from original sin, made a Christian, a child of God, and
heir to the Kingdom of Heaven. In the twilight, too, we could see the
faded plaster statue of St. Catherine Martyr, for whom she had special
devotion. We felt, in that holy hour, that Joan, high in heaven, was
pleased even with us; for we, too, had fought and bled for the same holy
cause, the cause of Truth and Justice in the world, for which she had
with the Greater Love offered the sacrifice of her life. How often, in
that hallowed long ago, had