Jeanne was led back to her prison and the company of John Grey’s men. It was
the twenty-third of May, and she had been a prisoner a year. A year, and for nearly five months of that time she had been chained and ironed like a wild beast. Through almost four months of it she had been tortured, badgered, and bullied through the most cruel and unjust trial the world has ever known. And she had faced this daily torment with high spirit and undaunted mien. But she was weary, and worn, and the despondency that follows a period of high exaltation came upon her. Her Voices had promised “deliverance by a great victory,” and deliverance had not come. The next day there would be the sentence, and death by fire. All night the girl lay in her chains striving to commune with her saintly visitors, but her guards were noisy, and she could catch but little of what they were saying:
“Answer boldly all that is said to you,” they told her. “God will help you. Fear naught.”
The morning came, and found her listless, sad, and inexpressibly weary. The false Loyseleur was on hand early, urging her to submit to the Church.
“Do all that you are told, and you may be saved,” he said to her. “Accept the woman’s dress, and do as I tell you; then you will be given over to the Church.
Otherwise you are in peril of death.”
Came also Jean Beaupère, one of the assessors.
“You will soon be led to the scaffold to be preached to,” he said. “If you are a good Christian place all your deeds and words in the ordering of our Holy Mother Church, and especially of the ecclesiastical judges.”
So they talked to her. Presently the cart came that was to carry her to the cemetery of St. Ouen, which was to be the place of her sentence. Loyseleur, Massieu and a number of the priests rode with her, exhorting, explaining, and
pleading with her to submit. They drove through the marketplace that she might see the preparations that had been made for the execution of the sentence should she persist in her obduracy. Jeanne was not spared one pang. A lofty scaffold with a stake upon it, the logs all arranged ready for the lighting, stood in the midst of the marketplace waiting for its victim.
It was a beautiful day in May. The blue sky had not one cloud to mar its cerulean depths. The streets were filled with crowds of excited people who pushed and struggled behind the rows of erect English soldiers who guarded the passage of
the tumbril to the place of sentence: all speaking of life, life and liberty. And beside Loyseleur was whispering, “Submit! Submit!”
Before the stately church of St. Ouen there was an open space that afforded room for a large assemblage of people. Here were erected two platforms, one facing the other. On one of these, in the midst of prelates and nobles, Cardinal Winchester sat with the Bishop of Beauvais and the Earl of Warwick; on the other was the preacher, Maître Guillaume Erad, for it was usual to preach to a witch before burning her. Here also stood Jeanne, and the priests who had accompanied her. Below and all around were a vast concourse of people, and many soldiers.
When all were in their places the preacher arose, and began his sermon: “A branch cannot bear fruit of itself except it abide in the vine.” It was long and eloquent. When it was half over he suddenly began to apostrophise France and
her King: “Ah, France! thou art much abused; thou hast always been the most Christian of nations, and Charles, who calls himself thy king and governor, hath joined himself, a heretic and schismatic, which he is, to the words and deeds of a worthless woman, defamed and full of dishonour; and not only he but all the clergy within his jurisdiction and lordship by whom she hath been examined and
not reproved, as she hath said.” Then pointing at the Maid, he cried: “It is to thee, Jeanne, that I speak. I tell thee that thy king is a heretic and schismatic.”
Jeanne could bear, and had borne much; but she could not stand an assault upon
her King. Clearly her voice rang out as it had been wont to do on field of battle:
“By my faith, sire, saving your respect, I swear upon my life that my King is the most noble Christian of all Christians, that he is not what you say.”
So she spoke, defending the craven who had made no effort in her behalf. There
was a sensation among the people as she made her cry; a stir as though moved in spite of themselves, and voices began to murmur excitedly. At this the English soldiers who surrounded the two platforms in a close ring drew closer, and made
threatening gestures toward the crowd which silenced them. The preacher resumed his sermon, which he concluded with a last solemn exhortation to the prisoner to yield submission to the Church.
As her Voices had bade her do, Jeanne replied to the preacher’s words boldly: “I have told you Doctors that all my deeds and words should be sent to Rome to our Holy Father, the Pope, to whom, and to God first, I appeal. As for my deeds, I burden no man with them, neither my King nor any other. If fault there be, it is my own and no other’s.”
Three times she was asked if she was willing to renounce those of her acts and
words which the court condemned. To which she replied only:
“I appeal to God, and to our Holy Father, the Pope.”
She was told that the Pope was too far away, and that the Ordinaries were judges each in his own diocese, and that it was necessary that she should confess that the clergy and officers of the Church had a right to determine in her case. Then the Bishop began to read her sentence. He had prepared two: one in case she recanted; the other, the death by fire. It was this latter that he now began to pronounce. And all around the maiden there broke forth a tumult of voices urging her to submit. Some among the crowd dared to call to her entreatingly:
“Submit, Jeanne, submit. Save yourself.”
Almost distracted, the girl folded her hands, and raised her eyes. “St. Michael, help,” she called pleadingly. Her Voices were speaking, but in the confusion she could not hear, but about her sounded those others: “Submit! Submit! Why will
you burn?”
There is a limit to human endurance. Through months the girl had preserved a clear mind that had guided her through the tortuous intricacies of the snares that treacherous legality and perverted ingenuity could devise for her; she had been loyal, in despite of all perils, to her belief in her mission, to her faith in her Voices, to her duty to her King: but now––the indomitable spirit broke under the strain. She could bear no more.
“I submit,” she cried in anguish. “I am willing to hold all that the Church ordains, all that you judges shall say and pronounce. I will obey your orders in everything. Since the men of the Church decide that my apparitions and revelations are neither sustainable nor credible, I do not wish to believe or to sustain them. I yield in everything to you, and to our Holy Mother Church.”
“Then sign,” cried a churchman, thrusting forward a paper. “Sign, and so
abjure.”
The girl looked at him, bewildered and confused by the commotion about her.
“Abjure?” she said. “What is abjure?”
Massieu, who had been among those who conducted her thither, now began to explain. “Sign,” he said, “Sign.”
“Sign,” cried Erad, the preacher. “Sign, and you will be put in charge of the Church.”
Jeanne could not write, but she mechanically made her mark, placing it where they told her. Then one of them guiding her hand, traced the name, Jehanne, at
the bottom of the page. Jeanne gave one last cry as she permitted it:
