THE DRAMA OF 365 DAYS
it had to go back. And back and back it went before the armies of France, Britain, and Belgium, until it reached a point at which it could dig itself into the earth and hide in a long serpentine trench stretching from the Alps to the sea.
Only then did the spirit of France draw breath for a moment, and the next flash as of lightning showed her offering thanks and making supplications before the white statue of Jeanne d'Arc in the apse of the great cathedral of Notre Dame, sacred to innumerable memories. On the Feast of St. Michael 10,000 of the women of Paris were kneeling under the dark vault, and on the broad space in front of the majestic facade, to call on the Maid of Orleans to intercede with the Virgin for victory. It was a great and grandiose scene, recalling the days when faith was strong and purer. Old and young, rich and poor, every woman with some soul that was dear to her in that inferno at the front—the Motherhood of France was there to pray to the Mother of all living to ask God for the triumph of the right.
"Jesus, hear our cry for our country! Justice for France, O God!"
And in the spirit of that prayer the soul of France still lives.
