M'sieur the world is made of such things. But there are other things. We
who live in quiet places, know. One has not too much of excitement, we
others, so that one remembers a great event which has happened to one's
family many years. Yes, indeed, M'sieur, centuries. If one has not much
one guards as a souvenir the tale of the silver stirrup of Jeanne. Yes,
for several generations."

The boy was apparently unconscious that his remarks were peculiar.
"Philippe, will you tell me what you mean by a silver stirrup which
Jeanne d'Arc gave to your ancestors?"

"But with pleasure, M'sieur," he answered readily, with the gracious
French politeness which one meets among the _habitants_ side by side
with sad lapses of etiquette. "It is all-simple that the old
grandfather, the ancient, he who lived in France when the Maid fought
her wars, was an armorer. '_Ca fait que_'--_sa fak_, Philippe pronounced
it--'so it happened that on a day the stirrup of the Maid broke as her
horse plunged, and my grandfather, the ancient, he ran quickly and
caught the horse's head. And so it happened--_ce fait que_--that my
grandfather was working at that moment on a fine stirrup of gold for her
harness, for though they burned her afterwards, they gave her then all
that there was of magnificence. And the old follow--_le vieux_--whipped
out the golden stirrup from his pocket, quite prepared for use, so it
happened--and he put it quickly in the place of the silver one which she
had been using. And Jeanne smiled. 'You are ready to serve France,
Armorer.'

"She bent then and looked _le vieux_ in the face--but he was young at
the time.

"'Are you not Baptiste's son, of Doremy?' asked the Maid.

"'Yes, Jeanne,' said my _grandpere_.

"'Then keep the silver stirrup to remember our village, and God's
servant Jeanne,' she said, and gave it to him with her hand."

If a square of Gobelin tapestry had emerged from the woods and hung
itself across the gunwale of my canvas canoe it would not have been more
surprising. I got my breath. "And the stirrup, what became of it?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "_Sais pas_," he answered with French
nonchalance. "One does not know that. It is a long time, M'sieur le
Docteur. It was lost, that stirrup, some years ago. It may be a hundred
years. It may be two hundred. My grandfather, he who keeps the grocery
shop, has told me that there is a saying that a Martel must go to France
to find the silver stirrup. In every