hich a Sieur de Coucy began in 1212; trickling
gray as glacier waters over the fallen walls which artists had loved. It
marbled with pale streaks the burned, black corpse of the once famous
Maison des Laines; it clouded the marvellous old church of St. Remi, and
when we came to the Cathedral--kept for the climax--it floated past the
wounded statues on the great western facade like an army of
spirits--spirits of all those watching saints whom the statues honoured.

The crowns of the broken towers we could not see, but at that height the
mist was gilded by the sun which sifted through so that each tower
seemed to have its own faint golden halo.

"This effect comes often on these foggy autumn days, when the sun is
high, about noontime," said our guide. "It's rather wonderful, isn't it?
We have a priest-soldier invalided here now, who used to be of the
service in the Cathedral, before he volunteered to fight. He has written
some verses, which it seems came to him in a dream one night. Whether
the world would think them fine I do not know, but at Rheims we like
them. The idea is that Jeanne d'Arc has mobilized the souls of the
saints who protect Rheims, to bless and console the Cathedral, which
they were not permitted to save from outward ruin. It is she who gilds
the mist on the towers with a prophecy of hope. As for the mist itself,
according to the poet, it is no common fog. It is but the cloak worn by
this army of saints to visit their cathedral, and bathe its wounds with
their cool white hands, so that at last, when peace dawns, there shall
be a spiritual beauty found in the old marred stones--a beauty they
never had in their prime."

"I should like to see that soldier-priest!" said Father Beckett, when I
had translated for him the officer's description of the poem. "Couldn't
we meet him? What's his name?"

I passed on the questions to our captain of the scarred face. "The man's
name is St. Pol," he told us. "You can see from that he comes of an old
family. If it had been this day last week you could have met him. He
would have been pleased. But--since then--alas! Mademoiselle, it is
impossible that he should be seen. It would be too sad for you and your
friends."

"He has been wounded in some bombardment?" I exclaimed.

"Not wounded--no. We don't think much of wounds. What has happened is
sadder than wounds. Some day the man may recover. We hope so. But at
present he--is out of everything, dead in life."

"What