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

FOR ANDRe--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 Andre--two officers had taken her.

SHE struggled--

A SWORD--

THE flames of the burning village had revealed it.

MONSIEUR L'ABBe had said suicide was sin--but surely G.o.d 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 Andre, 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 n.o.bleman.

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 G.o.d.--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