a train.

It was a small town in the Interior of Russia—of the Russia torn by wars and rebellions at home. A sorrow-stricken land.

The mystery, the romance of the night—the distant shores of Africa—seemed still upon her. She could almost feel the murmur of the water as it splashed against the boat.

And the next day—Algiers—the quaint streets—the mosques—flowers—and white robed Arabs.

Very quietly they had been married in the Cathedral which bears the name of a whole continent.

Notre Dame d'Afrique.

The sun had smiled as it shone on the city by the sea.

It grew colder.

A train came into sight on the vast field of snow.

On that train the man she loved and had married was coming to her.

That enchanted period in Algiers—He was returning—perhaps a wreck of his once splendid self—a cripple

War

It had shattered homes—brought skeletons—where once children laughed.

Brought famine—once birds had eaten crumbs.

War—

Horror—dismay

She waited

His eyes were aghast—eyes that had seen death—murder—horror—side by side—

There was no more laughter. He took Anna into his arms. Then the report was not true. He had not given his right arm.

Anna, he whispered, My brave Anna

I have been thinking of Algiers, she murmured. We planned to have sunshine—and roses—even among the snows of our country. But we faced blood—blood on the snows of our forests—

Ivan, it is bitter cold. Do not go out—into the night—

To Africa. The moon will be making golden streaks upon the water. A rose will be blooming in our garden—his eyes were vacant.

Then it was not his arm he had given for Russia—it was—

A cry pierced the cold air.

The weight of a dead body resounded.

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