and then he
went on to admire how ingeniously she had deceived that man and yet had
not told him anything that was not the truth. This troubled Joan, and she
said:

"I thought he was deceiving himself. I forbore to tell him lies, for that
would have been wrong; but if my truths deceived him, perhaps that made
them lies, and I am to blame. I would God I knew if I have done wrong."

She was assured that she had done right, and that in the perils and
necessities of war deceptions that help one's own cause and hurt the
enemy's were always permissible; but she was not quite satisfied with
that, and thought that even when a great cause was in danger one ought to
have the privilege of trying honorable ways first. Jean said:

"Joan, you told us yourself that you were going to Uncle Laxart's to
nurse his wife, but you didn't say you were going further, yet you did go
on to Vaucouleurs. There!"

"I see now," said Joan, sorrowfully. "I told no lie, yet I deceived. I
had tried all other ways first, but I could not get away, and I had to
get away. My mission required it. I did wrong, I think, and am to blame."

She was silent a moment, turning the matter over in her mind, then she
added, with quiet decision, "But the thing itself was right, and I would
do it again."

It seemed an over-nice distinction, but nobody said anything. I few had
known her as well as she knew herself, and as her later history revealed
her to us, we should have perceived that she had a clear meaning there,
and that her position was not identical with ours, as we were supposing,
but occupied a higher plane. She would sacrifice herself--and her best
self; that is, her truthfulness--to save her cause; but only that; she
would not buy her life at that cost; whereas our war-ethics permitted the
purchase of our lives, or any mere military advantage, small or great, by
deception. Her saying seemed a commonplace at the time, the essence of
its meaning escaping us; but one sees now that it contained a principle
which lifted it above that and made it great and fine.

Presently the wind died down, the sleet stopped falling, and the cold was
less severe. The road was become a bog, and the horses labored through it
at a walk--they could do no better. As the heavy time wore on, exhaustion
overcame us, and we slept in our saddles. Not even the dangers that
threatened us could keep us awake.

This tenth night seemed longer than any of the others, and of course it
w