of the deep game which Cauchon was playing except the Cardinal
of Winchester. Then you can imagine the astonishment and
stupefaction of that vast mob gathered there and those crowds of
churchmen assembled on the two platforms, when they saw Joan
of Arc moving away, alive and whole–slipping out of their grip at
last, after all this tedious waiting, all this tantalizing expectancy.
Nobody was able to stir or speak for a while, so paralyzing was the
universal astonishment, so unbelievable the fact that the stake was
actually standing there unoccupied and its prey gone.
Then suddenly everybody broke into a fury of rage; maledictions
and charges of treachery began to fly freely; yes, and even stones:
a stone came near killing the Cardinal of Winchester–it just
missed his head. But the man who threw it was not to blame, for
he was excited, and a person who is excited never can throw
straight.
The tumult was very great, indeed, for a while. In the midst of it a
chaplain of the Cardinal even forgot the proprieties so far as to
oppobriously assail the august Bishop of Beauvais himself,
shaking his fist in his face and shouting:
“By God, you are a traitor!”
“You lie!” responded the Bishop.
He a traitor! Oh, far from it; he certainly was the last Frenchman
that any Briton had a right to bring that charge against.
The Early of Warwick lost his temper, too. He was a doughty
soldier, but when it came to the intellectuals–when it came to
delicate chicane, and scheming, and trickery–he couldn’t see any
further through a millstone than another. So he burst out in his
frank warrior fashion, and swore that the King of England was
being treacherously used, and that Joan of Arc was going to be
allowed to cheat the stake. But they whispered comfort into his
ear:
“Give yourself no uneasiness, my lord; we shall soon have her
again.”
Perhaps the like tidings found their way all around, for good news
travels fast as well as bad. At any rate, the ragings presently
quieted down, and the huge concourse crumbled apart and
disappeared. And thus we reached the noon of that fearful
Thursday.
We two youths were happy; happier than any words can tell–for
we were not in the secret any more than the rest. Joan’s life was
saved. We knew that, and that was enough. France would hear of
this day’s infamous work–and then! Why, then her gallant sons
would flock to her standard by thousands and thousands,
multitudes upon multitudes, and their wrath would be like the
wrath of the ocean when the storm-winds sweep it; and they would
hurl themselves against this doomed city and overwhelm it like the
resistless tides of that ocean, and Joan of Arc would march again!
In six days–seven days–one short week–noble France, grateful
France, indignant France, would be thundering at these gates–let
us count the hours, let us count the minutes, let us count the
seconds! O happy day, O day of ecstasy, how our hearts sang in
our bosoms!
For we were young then, yes, we were very young.
Do you think the exhausted prisoner was allowed to rest and sleep
after she had spent the small remnant of her strength in dragging
her tired body back to the dungeon?
No, there was no rest for her, with those sleuth-hounds on her
track. Cauchon and some of his people followed her to her lair
straightway; they found her dazed and dull, her mental and
physical forces in a state of prostration. They told her she had
abjured; that she had made certain promises–among them, to
resume the apparel of her sex; and that if she relapsed, the Church
would cast her out for good and all. She heard the words, but they
had no meaning to her. She was like a person who has taken a
narcotic and is dying for sleep, dying for rest from nagging, dying
to be let alone, and who mechanically does everything the
persecutor asks, taking but dull note of the things done, and but
dully recording them in the memory. And so Joan put on the gown
which Cauchon and his people had brought; and would come to