the sun of early morning or the twilight
glow of eventide found Joan here at prayer. In this sanctuaried Garden
of the Lord grew the fairest Flower of Chivalry. Here did she receive
the Bread of Life, the Wine that maketh Virgins; here, by frequent
confession, was her soul kept fair and pure as the lilies of Paradise.

Darkness had fallen over the village when we left the Church. A call at
the Rectory informed us that Monsieur le Cure was absent, and would not
return till a late hour. At the end of the street we found a dear old
couple, living alone, who agreed to shelter us for the night. With what
skill good Madame made ready that evening meal! Sitting in the square of
light cast by the glowing fireplace, and with our shadows, to the tempo
of crackling fagots, in rhythmic gyrations on the ancient walls, my
driver and I watched her prepare it.

First there was the pommes de terre to be peeled, washed and sliced to
the exact size of centuries old French fry. Monsieur was permitted to
assist her in this, and wielded the keen bladed knife with precision.
Then there was the salad and the seasoning of it to just that degree of
the "delicieux" the palate revels in. With the art, as it were, of a
magician, she drew from a huge cupboard the most inviting piece of beef
and proudly flourished it before our devouring eyes. Here was the
makings of a "filet de boeuf" fit for Epicurius himself. In the center
of the table was next placed the great round loaf of bread, neither
wheat nor oats nor rye, but a happy combination of all and delightfully
toothsome. Crowning all, the liquid amber of cafe-au-lait, which Madame,
timing our needs to a nicety, poured at just the right moment.

During the meal, we diligently inquired if any lineal descendants of the
d'Arc family were to be found in Domremy. No, not one! No person of the
name lived in the village; although most every girl and woman there bore
the name of Joan!

After the meal, and when all had retired, I made my way out into the
moon-lit night. Domremy was sleeping, nor did it give thought of "the
stranger within its gates." Back to the Church, and to the home of Joan,
still standing beside it, I made my way. I revelled in the historical
ensemble of it all; and my desire was to become so imbued with its very
atmosphere, as to verily breathe it all my remaining life. In fancy I
reviewed the story of her life like pages of a book, and its thrilling
deeds and transcending achieveme