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 it already. . . . The
penance. . . . France. . . . Jeanne d'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.