As for the mist itself,
according to the poet, it is no common fog. It is but the cloak worn by
this army of saints to visit their cathedral, and bathe its wounds with
their cool white hands, so that at last, when peace dawns, there shall
be a spiritual beauty found in the old marred stones--a beauty they
never had in their prime."
"I should like to see that soldier-priest!" said Father Beckett, when I
had translated for him the officer's description of the poem. "Couldn't
we meet him? What's his name?"
I passed on the questions to our captain of the scarred face. "The man's
name is St. Pol," he told us. "You can see from that he comes of an old
family. If it had been this day last week you could have met him. He
would have been pleased. But--since then--alas! Mademoiselle, it is
impossible that he should be seen. It would be too sad for you and your
friends."
"He has been wounded in some bombardment?" I exclaimed.
"Not wounded--no. We don't think much of wounds. What has happened is
sadder than wounds. Some day the man may recover. We hope so. But at
present he--is out of everything, dead in life."
"What happened?" I gasped.
"Oh, it is quite a history!" said the Captain. "But it begins a long
time ago, when the Germans came to Rheims in 1914. Perhaps it would
fatigue you? Besides, you have to translate, which takes double the
time. I might write out the story and send it, Mademoiselle, if you
like.
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