The shepherd girl that had delivered France—­she, from her dungeon, she, from her baiting at the stake, she, from her duel with fire, as she entered her last dream—­saw Domremy, saw the fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood had wandered.  That Easter festival, which man had denied to her languishing heart—­that resurrection of spring-time, which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted from her, hungering after the glorious liberty of forests—­were by God given back into her hands, as jewels that had been stolen from her by robbers.  With those, perhaps, (for the minutes of dreams can stretch into ages,) was given back to her by God the bliss of childhood.  By special privilege, for her might be created, in this farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent as the first; but not, like that, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the rear.  This mission had now been fulfilled.  The storm was weathered, the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing off.  The blood, that she was to reckon for, had been exacted; the tears, that she was to shed in secret, had been paid to the last.  The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had been suffered, had been survived.  And in her last fight upon the scaffold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously she had tasted the stings of death.  For all, except this comfort from her farewell dream, she had died—­died, amidst the tears of ten thousand enemies—­died, amidst the drums and trumpets of armies—­died, amidst peals redoubling upon peals, volleys upon volleys, from the saluting clarions of martyrs.

Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-burthened man is in dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes, and because upon that fluctuating mirror—­rising (like the mocking mirrors of mirage in Arabian deserts) from the fens of death—­most of all are reflected the sweet countenances which the man has laid in ruins; therefore I know, Bishop, that you, also, entering your final dream, saw Domremy.  That fountain, of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your eyes in pure morning dews; but neither dews, nor the holy dawn, could cleanse away the bright spots of innocent blood upon its surface.  By the fountain, Bishop, you saw a woman seated, that hid her face.  But as you draw near, the woman raises her wasted features.  Would Domremy know them again for the features of her child?  Ah, but you know them, Bishop, well!  Oh, mercy! what a groan was that which the servants, waiting outside the Bishop’s dream at his bedside, heard from his laboring heart, as at this moment he turned away from the fountain and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off.  Yet not so to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before he dies.  In the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find a respite?  What a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there!  In glades, where only wild deer should run, armies and nations are assembling;