Chapter I: WONDER what that was, Ivan mused

WHICH is the shortest way to the Cathedral----

THESE Arab streets are so steep--

CANDLES

BEFORE a statue of Joan of Arc, in a little country church, a child knelt in prayer.

OH protect my papa--the little one prayed.

SHE lighted a candle--offered it to the Maid of France.

* * * * *

A YOUNG girl prayed at the feet of the Saint. She burned a candle.

FOR ANDRÉ--for his safety.

THE invaders entered the village,--heeding neither church nor ground of the dead.

THEY ripped open shallow graves to show the living they had power--even over those who had gone. They killed the priest. And the nuns, even, from the school.

THEY damaged.

DESTROYED--

THE church caught fire. The candles, burning before the Saint of Domremy, blazed into one huge flame. It shot up to the roof. And seemed to cry--

O JOAN OF ARC--come back--France needs you.

* * * * *

THE child--

AN Angel of Heaven

THE young girl who had prayed for André--two officers had taken her.

SHE struggled--

A SWORD--

THE flames of the burning village had revealed it.

MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ had said suicide was sin--but surely God would forgive--

SHE pierced the sword into her white flesh--blood flowed to the ground.

LITTLE FOOL muttered the maddened officer.

HE went back to the village--for more destroying.

A STONE from a burning house--

HE died with an oath.

BUT André, weeks before, had died with prayer upon his lips--a thought for his sweet betrothed.

IGOR

ONWARD

TO kill

PILLAGE

ONLY a few days before the lighted candles of a chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his soul. The brown habit--the crucifix lay forgotten.

THE maddening din of battle. Its fury burned his soul.

HE had been left an orphaned child. At the monastery.

HIS name was Igor. Some whispered he was the son of a great nobleman.

NONE knew for sure.

AT first his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, his dark eyes flashed.

THOU shalt not kill called from afar--but the cannons deafened him

* * * * *

THEY entered the courtyard--into the castle hall.

HAD its dwellers fled along the muddy roads and fields of Belgium

NO

SOME women still--

A YOUNG one, watching for escape

ANOTHER with graying hair and soft eyes. She had stayed. Her sins perhaps would be forgiven on the Altar of Sacrifice. Burning anguish.

SHE had sinned against God.--Against her husband. Long ago.

REMORSE still clung in her heart.

IGOR drew back--but was pushed on by others, rude, boisterous, toward the wine cellars.

THOU shalt not kill faintly--but a breaking bottle dimmed the sound.

THE wine heated, wakened dormant senses.

MORE wine

WITH shouts and cries the tottering men came from the cellar--Laughed at the woman with graying hair

SHE was shielding a girl whose eyes resembled Igor's. The girl who had watched to escape.

AND could not

THE uniform, the sabre--

GONE was the memory of a brown habit.

HE came nearer. Was it a woman--

HE clasped her. Her soft hair brushed his face.

OTHER soldiers came--dragged her from him. Fought over her like powerful beasts, heeding not the mother--

IGOR--protect her

IN a drunken rage he caught the girl to the open window--

I'LL kill her he screamed. You--who seem to know my name.

THE crime was spared him.

HER lifeless body slipped from his arms.

IGOR, gasped the mother, You have killed--

I'LL kill you!--the wine had infuriated--he lifted his sabre--

STOP--you are my son

DAZED--he heard the words but understood not.

* * * * *

A NIGHT of drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the Belgian chateau.

THE captors had damaged--broken--destroyed.

THE sun was setting on a second day--when Igor awoke.

THE first time in his life he awakened from drink. He reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the monastery

HE felt a dead body--the sharp edge of a sabre--

WHERE--

ORDERS had come

THE army

HAD there been battles--

--AND slowly memory returned--

STOP--you are my son.

WHO had said it--was it long ago--No. Only after the wine cellar--

HE sat up--on the floor--where drunkenness had overcome him.

THE horrible memory of his crime swept over him.

HIS mother--

HE seized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. Then this was the remorse the older monks had told him--had been his father's--

AND he--her son--had plunged his sabre into her heart

HIS own was bursting.

AND this girl. He had not killed her--she had died--

WAS she--his sister--only of a different father--

* * * * *

WE are through--burn

A HARD line played on the lips of the commander

* * * * *

THE flames leapt from room to room--

IGOR--

THE smoke--it was overcoming him--

HIS mother--

HE had forgotten how to pray

AN unutterable abyss.

THE horror of war

THE fire blazed upward--smoke filled the room--

THERE'S the bell--he staggered to his feet--It is ringing

TELL Brother John to light the candles--he walked into the flames--

I am coming.

TWO HAD LIVED [_To M. D. R._]

I

PASSIONATELY musical--Janet Knott had been sent abroad to study.

HOMESICK and weary she wandered about in a strange city, knowing not even the language.

THE gray sky--the grayer buildings. Was there not in this city a kindly soul--one she could talk to--confide in--

IN a narrow street--suddenly the rich deep tones of an organ reached her soul--

BUILT in among great buildings a small Church. There at least she could find comfort--and the organ.

WAS it a Requiem--minor chords--the keys seemed to sob under the pressure of withered hands.

JANET sobbed too. She was homesick. Lonely--

THE music stopped and the old organist came down and spoke with her. He asked why she was crying.

YOUR music is so sad, she whispered--

AH, my child, that is life--I am told to compose a Requiem--

WHAT youth, filled with the joy of living, could play these minor chords.

I TOO was young once--A student at the University. I loved life then--