The old priest stood up and, leading me to a window, pointed to the extreme end of the horseshoe circle of the bay.

“See that point,” he said.  “Right there, just as Capriata swung his vessel to head for the sea, the mare broke loose from her halter, and in a bound reached the rail of the schooner and leaped into the waves.  Capriata could do nothing.  The schooner was in peril, and he, with his hand upon the wheel and his men at the sails, could only utter an oath.  He confesses he did that, and you will find no man more convinced of the miracle than he.”

The aged missionary paused, his eyes glowing.  The nonos that settled in a swarm on his swollen, poisoned hands were nothing to him in the rapture of that memory.

“This happened at night.  Throughout the darkness the schooner stayed outside the bay, returning only at daylight.  Immediately after anchoring, the captain hastened to inform me of the misfortune, and found me saying mass.  It was one of the few times he had ever been in the sacred edifice.”

Pere Simeon smiled, and held up one finger to emphasize my attention.  “As soon as mass was finished, Capriata told me of what had happened, and his certainty that the mare was drowned.  I fell on my knees and said a despairing prayer to Joan.  That instant we heard a neigh outside, and rushing out of the church, we saw, cropping the grass in the mission enclosure, the white mare that was destined to bear the figure of Joan in the celebration of her fete.”

I could not restrain an exclamation of amazement. “Vraiment?”

“Absolument,” answered Pere Simeon.  “Unbelievers might explain that waves swept the mare ashore, and that through some instinct she found her way along the beach or over the hills.  But that she should come to the mission grounds, to the very spot where her home was to be, though she had never seen the islands before—­no, my friend, not even the materialist could explain that as less than supernatural.  I have sent the proofs to our order in Belgium.  They will form part of the evidence that will one day be offered to bring about the canonization of Joan.”

“And the procession, was it successful?” I inquired.

“Mais oui! It was magnificent.  When it started there was a grand fanfare of trumpets, drums, fireworks, and guns.  Never was there such a noise here since the days of battle between the whites and the natives.  There were four choirs of fifty voices each, the natives from all these nearby islands, each with a common chant in French and particular himines in Marquesan.  I walked first with the Blessed Sacrament; then came Captain Capriata with the banner of the mission, and then, proceeded by a choir, came the virgin on the white horse.

“She was all in silver armor, as was the mare.  Two years before I had sent to France for the pasteboard and the silver paper, and had made the armor.  The helmet was the piece de resistance.  The girl wore it as the Maid herself, and sat the horse without faltering, despite the nonos and the heat.  It was a wonderful day for Joan and for the Marquesas.”