The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France

The Broken Soldier and the Maid
of France, by
by Frank E.
Schoonover

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Henry Van Dyke, Illustrated by Frank E. Schoonover
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Title: The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France
Author: Henry Van Dyke
Release Date: June 3, 2005 [eBook #15978]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE
* * * * *
Books By Henry Van Dyke
The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France
The Americanism of Washington
The Christ Child in Art
The Lost Boy
The Mansion
The Story of the Other Wise Man
Harper & Brothers, New York Established 1817
* * * * *
THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE
by
HENRY VAN DYKE
With Illustrations by Frank E. Schoonover
New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers

MCMXIX

[Illustration]
"God commands you," she cried. "It is for France."

CONTENTS
The Meeting at the Spring The Green Confessional
The Absolving Dream
The Victorious Penance

The Meeting at the Spring
Along the old Roman road that crosses the rolling hills from the upper
waters of the Marne to the Meuse, a soldier of France was passing in
the night.
In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and
husky fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and a
handsome, downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a trace
of the horizon-blue was left; only a gray shadow. He had no knapsack
on his back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly he plodded
his way, without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping country. The
quick, firm military step was gone. He trudged like a tramp, choosing
always the darker side of the road.
He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.
Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches, and
so to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with wooded
heights beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some temple or

shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses near it. Farther
down he could see a cluster of white houses with the tower of a church
in the center. Other villages were dimly visible up and down the valley
on either slope. The cattle were lowing from the barnyards. The cocks
crowed for the dawn. Already the moon had sunk behind the western
trees. But the valley was still bathed in its misty, vanishing light. Over
the eastern ridge the gray glimmer of the little day was rising, faintly
tinged with rose. It was time for the broken soldier to seek his covert
and rest till night returned.
So he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick with
underwoods, and in it a clear spring gurgling among the ferns and
mosses. Around the opening grew wild gooseberries and golden broom
and a few tall spires of purple foxglove. He drew off his dusty boots
and socks and bathed his feet in a small pool, drying them with fern
leaves. Then he took a slice of bread and a piece of cheese from his
pocket and made his breakfast. Going to the edge of the thicket, he
parted the branches and peered out over the vale.
Its eaves sloped gently to the level floor where the river loitered in
loops and curves. The sun was just topping the eastern hills; the heads
of the trees were dark against a primrose sky.
In the fields the hay had been cut and gathered. The aftermath was
already greening the moist places. Cattle and sheep sauntered out to
pasture. A thin silvery mist floated here and there, spreading in broad
sheets over the wet ground and shredding into filmy scarves and
ribbons as the breeze caught it among the pollard willows and poplars
on the border of the stream. Far away the water glittered where the
river made a sudden bend or a long smooth reach. It was like the
flashing of distant shields. Overhead a few white clouds climbed up
from the north. The rolling ridges, one after another, infolded the valley
as far as eye could