Laboriously adjusting myself to the machine I plainly told the Maid, "I wish you clearly to appreciate, Saintly Joan, that I am making this journey for you. Of old, you were supremely helpful to the ruler of _your_ country. I want you to do as much for the President of _mine_. I am going to say Mass on your home altar for him, and I want you to help me. If God spares me, and I return to America, I promise to proclaim your glory and encourage all I can, young and old, in the practice of your devotion." Early dawn found us on our way. The steel helmet pulled low offers splendid protection to one's eyes. Traversing the old battlefields of St. Michel, we passed ruined Even and Essey and took the highroad leading south. The shell-torn steeple of Flirey church still leaned over the road; and the grewsome Limey Gondrecourt front, its deserted dugouts resembling grinning skulls, elicited a sigh and a prayer for its dead legions. Through Noviant and Men-le-Tour we sped, and at noon were beyond Toul and racing through the historic valley of the Moselle. At Bullney, our speeding car was curiously observed by thousands of German prisoners peering through the barbed wire enclosure of their roadside camp. Columbes-les-Belles, with its huge hangars, grimly stood in silhouette against a crimson burst of sunset. At Neufchateau we reached the river Meuse with whose glory the names of heroic inconquerable Petain and Verdun shall be forever shared. We were now in the picturesque "valley of colors," whose winding trails were trodden by the soldiers of Julius Caesar when "Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes tres" was written. With pulse beat quickened by thought of our hallowed pilgrimage nearing its end, we rushed like a specter down the road, through winding vistas of giant cottonwood and poplar; rounding a hill we came in full view of Domremy, and, with a final burst of speed, rushed splashing, and all a-thrilled with emotion, into its single street. Drawing up in front of the church, that of St. Remi, Apostle of the Franks, we were at once surrounded and curiously observed by a group of children. "Are these children now to see a soldier, still crippled with lumbago, or one the intercession of Joan has made whole?" This was the question I soliloquized, as I started to excavate myself from the mud-littered car! My chauffeur eyed me askance; and the look of pleasure with which he noted my evident recovery, told me he was as proud as I. The Saintly Maid had wrought her cure completely and with generous finality. At once we entered the Church. Five hundred years before Jacques and Isabelle d'Arc had crossed that very threshold, carrying the precious babe Joan to be baptized. The glowing ray of the sanctuary light welcomed us, and, perhaps, turned to jewels the tears of joy and reverence coursing our cheeks.