In the close, dim shelter of the inner
room Pierre came to himself.
He looked up into the face of Father Courcy. A light of recognition
and gratitude flickered in his eyes. It was like finding an old
friend in the dark.
"Welcome!--But the fort?" he gasped.
"It is ours," said the priest.
Something like a smile passed over the face of Pierre. He could
not speak for a long time. The blood in his throat choked him. At
last he whispered:
"Tell Josephine--love."
Father Courcy bowed his head and took Pierre's hand. "Surely," he
said. "But now, my dear son Pierre, I must prepare you--"
The struggling voice from the cot broke in, whispering slowly,
with long intervals: "Not necessary.... I know already.... The
penance. ... France.... Jeanned'Arc.... It is done."
A few drops of blood gushed from the corner of his mouth. The
look of peace that often comes to those who die of gunshot wounds
settled on his face. His eyes grew still as the priest laid the
sacred wafer on his lips. The broken soldier was made whole.
THE HEARING EAR
There were three American boys from the region of Philadelphia
in the dugout, "Somewhere in France"; and they found it a snug
habitation, considering the circumstances.
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