through the over-zeal of this meddling fool. Warwick gave
D’Estivet a quite admirable cursing–admirable as to strength, I
mean, for it was said by persons of culture that the art of it was not
good–and after that the meddler kept still.
Joan remained ill more than two weeks; then she grew better. She
was still very weak, but she could bear a little persecution now
without much danger to her life. It seemed to Cauchon a good time
to furnish it. So he called together some of his doctors of theology
and went to her dungeon. Manchon and I went along to keep the
record–that is, to set down what might be useful to Cauchon, and
leave out the rest.
The sight of Joan gave me a shock. Why, she was but a shadow! It
was difficult for me to realize that this frail little creature with the
sad face and drooping form was the same Joan of Arc that I had so
often seen, all fire and enthusiasm, charging through a hail of
death and the lightning and thunder of the guns at the head of her
battalions. It wrung my heart to see her looking like this.
But Cauchon was not touched. He made another of those
conscienceless speeches of his, all dripping with hypocrisy and
guile. He told Joan that among her answers had been some which
had seemed to endanger religion; and as she was ignorant and
without knowledge of the Scriptures, he had brought some good
and wise men to instruct her, if she desired it. Said he, “We are
churchmen, and disposed by our good will as well as by our
vocation to procure for you the salvation of your soul and your
body, in every way in our power, just as we would do the like for
our nearest kin or for ourselves. In this we but follow the example
of Holy Church, who never closes the refuge of her bosom against
any that are willing to return.”
Joan thanked him for these sayings and said:
“I seem to be in danger of death from this malady; if it be the
pleasure of God that I die here, I beg that I may be heard in
confession and also receive my Saviour; and that I may be buried
in consecrated ground.”
Cauchon thought he saw his opportunity at last; this weakened
body had the fear of an unblessed death before it and the pains of
hell to follow. This stubborn spirit would surrender now. So he
spoke out and said:
“Then if you want the Sacraments, you must do as all good
Catholics do, and submit to the Church.”
He was eager for her answer; but when it came there was no
surrender in it, she still stood to her guns. She turned her head
away and said wearily:
“I have nothing more to say.”
Cauchon’s temper was stirred, and he raised his voice threateningly
and said that the more she was in danger of death the more she
ought to amend her life; and again he refused the things she
begged for unless she would submit to the Church. Joan said:
“If I die in this prison I beg you to have me buried in holdy ground;
if you will not, I cast myself upon my Saviour.”
There was some more conversation of the like sort, then Cauchon
demanded again, and imperiously, that she submit herself and all
her deeds to the Church. His threatening and storming went for
nothing. That body was weak, but the spirit in it was the spirit of
Joan of Arc; and out of that came the steadfast answer which these
people were already so familiar with and detested so sincerely:
“Let come what may. I will neither do nor say any otherwise than I
have said already in your tribunals.”
Then the good theologians took turn about and worried her with
reasonings and arguments and Scriptures; and always they held the
lure of the Sacraments before her famishing soul, and tried to bribe
her with them to surrender her mission to the Church’s
judgment–that is to their judgment–as if they were the Church!
But it availed nothing. I could have told them that beforehand, if