A tiny brown wren sang canticles
of rapture in the thicket. A great light came into the priest's
face--a sun-ray from the east, far beyond the treetops.
"Blessed Jeanne d'Arc, I drink from thy fountain in thy name. I vow
my life to thy cause. Aid me, aid this my son, to fight valiantly
for freedom and for France. In the name of God, Amen."
The soldier looked up at him. Wonder, admiration, and shame were
struggling in the look. Father Courcy wiped the empty cup carefully
and put it back in his bag. Then he sat down beside the soldier,
laying a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
"Now, my son, you shall tell me what is on your heart."
II
THE GREEN CONFESSIONAL
For a long time the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed.
His shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his knees. He
was wrestling with himself.
"No," he cried, at last, "I cannot, I dare not tell you. Unless,
perhaps"--his voice faltered--"you could receive it under the seal
of confession? But no. How could you do that? Here in the green
woods? In the open air, beside a spring? Here is no confessional.
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