's mercy. I had dreamed from boyhood of this
place as a legend--a memory of white chivalry to be found on no map,
a record of beauty as utterly submerged as the lost land of Lyonesse.
Hauntingly the words came back, "Who is this that cometh from Domremy?
Who is she in bloody coronation robes from Rheims? Who is she that
cometh with blackened flesh from walking in the furnaces of Rouen?
This is she, the shepherd girl...." All about me on the little hills
were the woodlands through which she must have led her sheep and
wandered with her heavenly visions.

We had come to a bend in the village street. Where the road took a
turn stood an aged church; nestling beside it in a little garden was
a grey, semi-fortified mediaeval dwelling. The garden was surrounded by
high spiked railings, planted on a low stone wall. Sitting on the wall
beside the entrance was an American soldier. He had a small French
child on either knee--one arm about each of them; thus embarrassed
he was doing his patient best to roll a Bull Durham cigarette. The
children were vividly interested; they laughed up into the soldier's
face. One of them was a boy, the other a girl. The long golden curls
of the girl brushed against the soldier's cheek. The three heads bent
together, almost touching. The scene was timelessly human, despite the
modernity of the khaki. Joan of Arc might have been that little girl.

I stopped the driver, got out and approached the group. The soldier
jumped to attention and saluted. In answer to my question, he said,
"Yes, this is where she lived. That's her house--that grey cottage
with scarcely any windows. Bastien le Page could never have seen it;
it isn't a bit like his picture in the Metropolitan Gallery."

He spoke in a curiously intimate way as if he had known Joan of Arc
and had spoken with her there--as if she had only just departed.
It was odd to reflect that America had still lain hidden behind the
Atlantic when Joan walked the world.

We entered the gate into the garden, the American soldier, the
children and I together. The little girl, with that wistful confidence
that all French children show for men in khaki, slipped her grubby
little paw into my hand. I expect Joan was often grubby like that.

Brown winter leaves strewed the path. The grass was bleached and dead.
At our approach an old sheep-dog rattled his chain and looked out of
his kennel. He was shaggy and matted with years. His bark was so
weak that it broke i