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At the rustic inn Pierre at thick slices of dark bread and drank a stoup of thin red wine at noon.  He sat at a bare table in the corner of the room.  Behind him, at a table covered with a white cloth, two captains on furlough had already made their breakfast.  They also were pilgrims, drawn by the love of Jeanne d’Arc to Domremy.  They talked of nothing else but of her.  Yet their points of view were absolutely different.

One of them, the younger, was short and swarthy, a Savoyard, the son of an Italian doctor at St. Jean de Maurienne.  He was a skeptic; he believed in Jeanne, but not in the legends about her.

“I tell you,” said he, eagerly, “she was one of the greatest among women.  But all that about her ‘voices’ was illusion.  The priests suggested it.  She had hallucinations.  Remember her age when they began—­just thirteen.  She was clever and strong; doubtless she was pretty; certainly she was very courageous.  She was only a girl.  But she had a big, brave idea which—­the liberation of her country.  Pure?  Yes.  I am sure she was virtuous.  Otherwise the troops would not have followed and obeyed her as they did.  Soldiers are very quick about those things.  They recognize and respect an honest woman.  Several men were in love with her, I think.  But she was ‘une nature froide.’  The only thing that moved her was her big, brave idea—­to save France.  The Maid was a mother, but not of a mortal child.  Her offspring was the patriotism of France.”

The other captain was a man of middle age, from Lyons, the son of an architect.  He was tall and pale and his large brown eyes had the tranquillity of a devout faith in them.  He argued with quiet tenacity for his convictions.

“You are right to believe in her,” said he, “but I think you are mistaken to deny her voices.  They were as real as anything in her life.  You credit her when she says that she was born here, that she went to Chinon and saw the king, that she delivered Orleans.  Why not credit her when she says she heard God and the saints speaking to her?  The proof of it was in what she did.  Have you read the story of her trial?  How clear and steady her answers were!  The judges could not shake her.  Yet at any moment she could have saved her life by denying the voices.  It was because she knew, because she was sure, that she could not deny.  Her vision was a part of her real life.  She was the mother of French patriotism—­yes.  But she was also the daughter of true faith.  That was her power.”

“Well,” said the younger man, “she sacrificed herself and she saved France.  That was the great thing.”

“Yes,” said the elder man, stretching his hand across the table to clasp the hand of his companion, “there is nothing greater than that.  If we do that, God will forgive us all.”

They put on their caps to go.  Pierre rose and stood at attention.  They returned his salute with a friendly smile and passed out.