making great and unpleasant talk, and Cauchon would not try to
repeat this shabby game right away. It comforted me to hear that.
When we arrived at the citadel next morning, we found that a
change had been made. The chapel had been found too small. The
court had now removed to a noble chamber situated at the end of
the great hall of the castle. The number of judges was increased to
sixty-two–one ignorant girl against such odds, and none to help
her.
The prisoner was brought in. She was as white as ever, but she was
looking no whit worse than she looked when she had first appeared
the day before. Isn’t it a strange thing? Yesterday she had sat five
hours on that backless bench with her chains in her lap, baited,
badgered, persecuted by that unholy crew, without even the
refreshment of a cup of water–for she was never offered anything,
and if I have made you know her by this time you will know
without my telling you that she was not a person likely to ask
favors of those people. And she had spent the night caged in her
wintry dungeon with her chains upon her; yet here she was, as I
say, collected, unworn, and ready for the conflict; yes, and the only
person there who showed no signs of the wear and worry of
yesterday. And her eyes–ah, you should have seen them and
broken your hearts. Have you seen that veiled deep glow, that
pathetic hurt dignity, that unsubdued and unsubduable spirit that
burns and smolders in the eye of a caged eagle and makes you feel
mean and shabby under the burden of its mute reproach? Her eyes
were like that. How capable they were, and how wonderful! Yes,
at all times and in all circumstances they could express as by print
every shade of the wide range of her moods. In them were hidden
floods of gay sunshine, the softest and peacefulest twilights, and
devastating storms and lightnings. Not in this world have there
been others that were comparable to them. Such is my opinion,
and none that had the privilege to see them would say otherwise
than this which I have said concerning them.
The s‚ance began. And how did it begin, should you think?
Exactly as it began before–with that same tedious thing which had
been settled once, after so much wrangling. The Bishop opened
thus:
“You are required now, to take the oath pure and simple, to answer
truly all questions asked you.”
Joan replied placidly:
“I have made oath yesterday, my lord; let that suffice.”
The Bishop insisted and insisted, with rising temper; Joan but
shook her head and remained silent. At last she said:
“I made oath yesterday; it is sufficient.” Then she sighed and said,
“Of a truth, you do burden me too much.”
The Bishop still insisted, still commanded, but he could not move
her. At last he gave it up and turned her over for the day’s inquest
to an old hand at tricks and traps and deceptive
plausibilities–Beaupere, a doctor of theology. Now notice the form
of this sleek strategist’s first remark–flung out in an easy, offhand
way that would have thrown any unwatchful person off his guard:
“Now, Joan, the matter is very simple; just speak up and frankly
and truly answer the questions which I am going to ask you, as you
have sworn to do.”
It was a failure. Joan was not asleep. She saw the artifice. She said:
“No. You could ask me things which I could not tell you–and
would not.” Then, reflecting upon how profane and out of
character it was for these ministers of God to be prying into
matters which had proceeded from His hands under the awful seal
of His secrecy, she added, with a warning note in her tone, “If you
were well informed concerning me you would wish me out of your
hands. I have done nothing but by revelation.”
Beaupere changed his attack, and began an approach from another
quarter. He would slip upon her, you see, under cover of innocent
and unimportant questions.
“Did you learn any trade at home?”