so insubstantial; yet it is easier to reduce a granite statue to ashes
than it is to do that with a man’s body.
The sight of the stake sent physical pains tingling down the nerves
of my body; and yet, turn as I would, my eyes would keep coming
back t it, such fascination has the gruesome and the terrible for us.
The space occupied by the platforms and the stake was kept open
by a wall of English soldiery, standing elbow to elbow, erect and
stalwart figures, fine and sightly in their polished steel; while from
behind them on every hand str4etched far away a level plain of
human heads; and there was no window and no housetop within
our view, howsoever distant, but was black with patches and
masses of people.
But there was no noise, no stir; it was as if the world was dead.
The impressiveness of this silence and solemnity was deepened by
a leaden twilight, for the sky was hidden by a pall of low-hanging
storm-clouds; and above the remote horizon faint winkings of
heat-lightning played, and now and then one caught the dull
mutterings and complainings of distant thunder.
At last the stillness was broken. From beyond the square rose an
indistinct sound, but familiar–court, crisp phrases of command;
next I saw the plain of heads dividing, and the steady swing of a
marching host was glimpsed between. My heart leaped for a
moment. Was it La Hire and his hellions? No–that was not their
gait. No, it was the prisoner and her escort; it was Joan of Arc,
under guard, that was coming; my spirits sank as low as they had
been before. Weak as she was they made her walk; they would
increase her weakness all they could. The distance was not
great–it was but a few hundred yards–but short as it was it was a
heavy tax upon one who had been lying chained in one spot for
months, and whose feet had lost their powers from inaction. Yes,
and for a year Joan had known only the cool damps of a dungeon,
and now she was dragging herself through this sultry summer heat,
this airless and suffocating void. As she entered the gate, drooping
with exhaustion, there was that creature Loyseleur at her side with
his head bent to her ear. We knew afterward that he had been with
her again this morning in the prison wearying her with his
persuasions and enticing her with false promises, and that he was
now still at the same work at the gate, imploring her to yield
everything that would be required of her, and assuring her that if
she would do this all would be well with her: she would be rid of
the dreaded English and find safety in the powerful shelter and
protection of the Church. A miserable man, a stony-hearted man!
The moment Joan was seated on the platform she closed her eyes
and allowed her chin to fall; and so sat, with her hands nestling in
her lap, indifferent to everything, caring for nothing but rest. And
she was so white again–white as alabaster.
How the faces of that packed mass of humanity lighted up with
interest, and with what intensity all eyes gazed upon this fragile
girl! And how natural it was; for these people realized that at last
they were looking upon that person whom they had so long
hungered to see; a person whose name and fame filled all Europe,
and made all other names and all other renowns insignificant by
comparions; Joan of Arc, the wonder of the time, and destined to
be the wonder of all times!
And I could read as by print, in their marveling countenances, the
words that were drifting through their minds: “Can it be true, is it
believable, that it is this little creature, this girl, this child with the
good face, the sweet face, the beautiful face, the dear and bonny
face, that has carried fortresses by storm, charged at the head of
victorious armies, blown the might of England out of her path with
a breath, and fought a long campaign, solitary and alone, against
the massed brains and learning of France–and had won it if the