The boy shrugged his shoulders. "_Sais pas_," he answered with French
nonchalance. "One does not know that. It is a long time, M'sieur le
Docteur. It was lost, that stirrup, some years ago. It may be a hundred
years. It may be two hundred. My grandfather, he who keeps the grocery
shop, has told me that there is a saying that a Martel must go to France
to find the silver stirrup. In every case I do not know. It is my wish
to fight for France, but as for the stirrup or Jeanne--_sais pas_."
Another shrug. With that he was making oration, his light eyes flashing,
his dark face working with feeling, about the bitterness of being a
cripple, and unable to go into the army.

"It is not _comme il faut_, M'sieur le Docteur, that a man whose very
grandfather fought for Jeanne should fail France now in her need.
Jeanne, one knows, was the saviour of France. Is it not?" I agreed. "It
is my inheritance, therefore, to fight as my ancient grandfather
fought." I looked at the lame boy, not knowing the repartee. He began
again. "Also I am the only one of the family proper to go, except
Adolphe, who is not very proper, having had a tree to fall on the lungs
and leave him liable to fits; and also Jacques and Louis are too young,
and Jean Baptiste he is blind of one eye, God knows. So it is I who
fail! I fail! Jesus Christ! To stay at home like a coward when France
needs men!"

"But you are Canadian, Philippe. Your people have been here two hundred
years."

"M'sieur, I am of France. I belong there with the fighting men." His
look was a flame, and suddenly I know why he was firing off hot shot at
me. I am a surgeon.