happened?" I gasped.

"Oh, it is quite a history!" said the Captain. "But it begins a long
time ago, when the Germans came to Rheims in 1914. Perhaps it would
fatigue you? Besides, you have to translate, which takes double the
time. I might write out the story and send it, Mademoiselle, if you
like. You and your friends are not as safe here as in your own houses, I
do not disguise that from you! The Germans have let us rest these last
few days. Yet who can tell when they may choose to wake us up with a
bomb or two?"

"I don't think we're afraid," I said, and consulted the Becketts. The
little old lady answered for both. She was stoutly sure they were not
afraid! "We shouldn't deserve to be Jim's parents if we were--of a thing
like _that_! You tell the Captain, Molly, we're getting used to bombs,
and we want the story right here, on the spot!"

"_C'est tres chic, ca!_" remarked the Captain, eyeing the mite of a
woman. He stood for a minute, his scarred face pale in the mist, his
eyes fixed thoughtfully on a headless stone king. Then he began his
story of the soldier-priest.

Monsieur le Cure de St. Pol was very young when the war began--almost as
young as a _cure_ can be. He did not think, at first, to become a
soldier, for he hated war. But, indeed, in those early days he had no
time to think at all. He only worked--worked, to help care for the
wounded who were pouring into Rheims, toward the last of August, 1914.
Many were brought into the Cathedral, where they lay on the floor, on
beds of straw. The Cure's duty was among these. He had relations in
Rheims--a family of cousins of the same name as his. They lived in a
beautiful old house, one of the best in Rheims, with an ancient chapel
in the garden. There was an invalid father, whose wife devoted her life
to him, and a daughter--a very beautiful young girl just home from a
convent-school the spring before the war broke out. There was a son,
too--but naturally, he was away fighting.

This young girl, Liane de St. Pol, was one of many in Rheims who
volunteered to help nurse the wounded. All girls brought up in convents
have some skill in nursing, you know!

While she and the Cure were at work in the Cathedral, among the wounded
men who came in were her own brother, a lieutenant, and his best friend,
a captain of his regiment. Both were badly hurt--the St. Pol boy worse
than his friend. Yet even for him there was hope--if he could have had
the best of care--if he