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.