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It is the thirtieth of May, most evil and memorable that Rouen shall look upon, but lovely in the uncon- sciousness of Nature toward all the works of man; grateful and lovely as the spring is wont to be in Nor- mandy. And thou too art of the May, dear Jeanne, the fragrant spring of thy years, rich with unfulfilled promise, bearing within thee hopes and dreams that shall know no fruition.

Vox turturis audita est in terra nostra. Columba mea, formosa mea, et vent.

The voice of the turtle dove, Sweet harbinger of love, Now soundeth in our land— Come, beautiful one and bland!

A troubling voice, Jeanne, for all its haunting mel- ody. Alas! its plaintive sweetness is not for thee, who art to be robbed of thy sacred youth—that crime which so revolted the old pagan gods!

Flores aperuerunt, ficus protulit grossos suos; Vinee florentes declarunt suum. Lo, vine and fig-tree now foretell The fruits that in their ripeness dwell; While flowers in spangled hosts appear, And all things breathe the vernal year.

Alas! Jeanne, what boots this song of the spring unto thee? Thy flower is to be cut off in the stalk. Graceful fig-tree, thou shalt give no fruit. Cherishing vine, the blight awaits thee!

The kisses which thou mightst give, the love that might swell thy fertile bosom, are reserved for The infinite.

Surge, amica mea, speciosa mea, et vent.

Arise, beloved and beautiful one, from thy hard couch where thou hast slept under the eyes of hate and lust—come away to the rest that is prepared for thee, who hast been faithful unto death. Of all that have been so bidden by the Lord of love, whose wel- come shall be sweeter than thine? .

This bright Wednesday morning Cauchon and his accomplices, purple and black, are in a great flurry about their ““Father’s business’”—God save the word! They meet, deliberate, and sentence Jeanne anew, de- claring her a relapsed sinner, a heretic, one excom- municated, etc.

A priest, Martin Ladvenu, kindly disposed, though he has concurred in the condemnation, comes to inform her that she will be burned. Her anguish is great; brave though she be, this death is too fright- ful! She laments: “My body, perfect and without stain, which has never been corrupted, must it be burned to ashes?” Again she cries, “I appeal to God the Great Judge from the wrongs and injustices that are done me!”

Frére Ladvenu is allowed to hear her confession and give her communion. This act of grace, incon- sistent with her condemnation, seems intended by Cauchon as a saving clause for himself. Jeanne charges him:

“Bishop, I die through you! You had promised to put me in the hands of the church, and you have left me to my enemies. And for this | summon you to answer before God!”

Will it be credited that even in this solemn moment the persecutors beset her with questions, demanding new avowals or recantations—a proof that they had really gotten nothing from her. A report of this ante- mortem séance was drawn up afterward, but the greffier refused to sign it. There can be little doubt that the concluding papers of the procés are all tinc- tured with fraud.

At nine o’clock Jeanne is led from the castle, placed in a cart, and taken to the old market-place. She is in woman’s dress and wears a hood. Massieu and the Dominicans Martin Ladvenu and Isambart de la Pierre accompany her. An immense crowd fills the streets along their progress, a silent crowd for the most part, save for the weeping women and wonder- ing little ones. But there are burning hearts in that crowd and a dumb rage that is one day to find expression. Eight hundred soldiers, English every man of them, escort the tumbril, keep the mob in check. Jeanne looks at the people, the streets, the houses, with her wide glance—she has really seen little of the old city since she was brought here in December. Suddenly she exclaims: “Rouen, Rouen, shall I die herer Art thou to be my last home?” .. .

Arrived at the old market-place, she is made to mount a platform, opposite to which is a larger one occupied by her judges. Nicholas Midy trains his lethal jaw upon her for a long time: his text is, “If one of the members of the body suffers, all suffer with it.” Jeanne is not moved by the stern exhortation of this man whom she knows for her enemy; she weeps and laments for the dreadful death so near, and the people weep with her.

Midy having concluded, Cauchon rises, pronounces the sentence which condemns and delivers her to the secular arm (the civil authority). Then the ecclesias- tical judges leave the platform and the scene, since the church may not be present at a punishment which she has ordered. To-day’s act will help to relieve her of such responsibility in a time still distant. The religion of love and mercy shall not go on partnering with the shedders of blood!

Cauchon is seen to weep, even the impassive Win- chester is touched to tears, but neither has any thoughts of relenting. And the tears of Cauchon should have indelibly blistered the stones on which they fell.

Even at this solemn moment Cauchon, incited no doubt by Winchester, went to the foot of the platform and made a last effort to wrest from his victim some word of submission or retraction. Her only response, uttered in a mild tone, was:

“Bishop, I die through you! Had you put me in the church prison this would not have happened.”

Now the English break out impatiently: “Come on, priests! Are you going to make us dine here?”

The lay or civil judge is present, but in his haste and fear of the English he does not comply with the usual formality. Jeanne is rudely seized by the sol- diers and led to the fatal pyre which has been built high on a plaster pedestal, in order that she may be seen from far and wide.

From the top of this mound of death she looks over the great concourse awestruck into silence, wait- ing in agonized expectation; and the words fall from her lips:

“Ah, Rouen, Rouen, much do I fear you will suffer from my death!”

They snatch off her hood and substitute a paper miter in the likeness of a bishop’s hat (an appro- priate symbol this), on which is written—HERETIC, RE- LAPSED, APOSTATE, SCHISMATIC, IDOLATER. Jeanne does not fail to protest against these false titles—vigilant, courageous to her last breath.

She asks for a cross, and a soldier gives her one contrived of two sticks; but Massieu runs to fetch a crucifix from a neighboring church. Jeanne begs him:

“Hold the cross before my eyes, above the flames, so long as | am able to see it.”

The executioner—a Frenchman and Rouennais— lights the pyre, which is slow to kindle, prolonging her agony. So high is she above him that he cannot give her, with his iron instrument, the merciful blow that would annul her pain. She warns the priest hold- ing aloft the crucifix to stand back from the fire. Then, from amid the mounting flames, her voice rises clear and audible in a supreme justification of her faith and her mission.

She declares that she is not a heretic, not a schis- matic, not an idolater, as the writing accuses her; that all she has done was at the command of God. Sweet and resonant, like the last notes of a clarion, her words float to the crowds who are now upon their knees—

“My Voices were from God; they have not deceived me!”

1On the expulsion of the English from Rouen, 1449. This result was included in Jeanne’s prophecy.