ng, as His
priests said? and did He hold in His hand, for those that passed into
the forgetful gate, some secret of joyful peace that would all in a
moment make amends?

He stopped beside a little stile--there, in front of him, over the
tops of an orchard, the trees of which were all laden with white and
rosy flowers, lay a small high-shouldered church, with a low steeple
of wood. The little windows of the tower seemed to regard him as with
dark sad eyes. He went by a path along the orchard edge, and entered
the churchyard, full of old graves, among which grew long tumbled
grass. He thought with a throb, that was almost of joy, of all those
that had laid down their weary bones there in the dust, husband by
wife, child by mother. They were waiting too, and how quietly! It was
all over for them, the trouble and the joy alike; and for a moment the
death that all dread seemed to him like a simple and natural thing,
the one thing certain. There at length they slept, a quiet sleep,
waiting for the dawn, if dawn there were.

He crossed the churchyard and entered the church; the coolness and
the dark and the ancient holy smell was sweet after the brightness and
the heat outside. Every line of the place was familiar to him from his
childhood. He walked slowly up the little aisle and passed within the
screen. The chancel was very dark, only lighted by two or three
deep-set windows. He made a reverence and then drew near to the altar.

All the furniture of the church was most simple and old; but over the
altar there was a long unusual-looking shelf; he went up to it, and
stood for awhile gazing upon it. Along the shelf lay a rude and
ancient sword of a simple design, in a painted scabbard of wood; and
over it was a board with a legend painted on it.

The legend was in an old form of French words, long since disused in
the land. But it said:

_Unsheathe me and die thyself, but the battle shall be stayed._

He had known the look of the sword, and the words on the board from a
child. The tale was that there had been in days long past a great
battle on the hill, and that the general of one of the armies had been
told, in a dream or vision, that if he should himself be slain, then
should his men have the victory; but that if he lived through the
battle, then should his men be worsted. Now before the armies met,
while they stood and looked upon each other, the general, so said the
tale, had gone out suddenly and alone, with his s