Tears came into the eyes of the old priest. He dismissed the chief
at once, and after saying farewell to Père Victorien, who was
embarking immediately for his own island of Haitheu, Père Simeon and
I entered his study, a pitifully shabby room where rickety furniture,
quaking floor, tattered wall-coverings, and cracked plates and
goblets spelled the story of the passing of an institution once
possessing grandeur and force. Seated in the only two sound chairs,
with wine and cigarettes before us, we took up the subject so dear
to Père Simeon's heart.

"I am glad if you cannot be a Frenchman that at least you are not an
Englishman," he said fervently. "God has punished England for the
murder of Jeanne d'Arc. That day at Rouen when they burned my beloved
patroness ended England. Now the English are but merchants, and they
have a heretical church.

"You should have seen the honors we paid the Maid here. _Mais,
Monsieur_, she has done much for these islands. The natives love her.
She is a saint. She should be canonized. But the opposition will not
down. There is reason to believe that the devil, Satan himself, or
at least important aides of his, are laboring against the doing of
justice to the Maid. She is powerful now, and doubtless has great
influence with the Holy Virgin in Heaven, but as a true saint she
would be invincible." The old priest's eyes shone with his faith.

"You do not doubt her miraculous intercession?" I asked.

Père Simeon lit another cigarette, watered his wine, and lifted from
a shelf a sheaf of pamphlets. They were hectographed, not printed