Months had passed since the battle of Compiegne.  Fever had had me fast in its grip all that while, and the news I heard on recovery brought it all back again.  Bertrand and Guy were in little better case.  We were like pale ghosts of our former selves during those winter months, when, hemmed in by snow, we could learn so little news from without, and could only eat out our hearts in rage and grief.

With the spring came the news of the trial at Rouen—­the bitter hatred of Bishop Cauchon—­the awful consummation he had vowed to bring about.

I know not whether it were folly to hope such a thing, but we three knights made instantly for the coast and crossed to England, to seek the ear of the young King there, and plead the cause of the Maid before him.  I need not say how our mission failed.  I care not to recall those sickening days of anxiety and hope deferred, and utter defeat at the last.

Heartbroken and desperate we returned; and made our way to Rouen.  The whole city was in confusion.  Need I say more?  That very day, within an hour, the Maid, the Messenger from God, the Deliverer of the King, the Saviour of France, was to die by fire, to perish as a heretic.  And the King whom she had saved had not lifted a hand to save her; the country she had delivered from a crushing disgrace, stood idly by to watch her perish thus!

Oh, the shame!—­the treachery!—­the horror!  Let me not try to write of it.  The King has striven now to make amends; but I wonder how he feels sometimes when he sees the May sunshine streaming over the fair earth—­over that realm which he now rules from sea to sea, when he thinks of the Maid who was led forth in that blaze of glory to meet her fiery doom.

O God of Heaven look down and judge!  How shall I tell of the sight I beheld?

Suddenly I came upon it—­mad with my grief, desperate with horror and despair.  I saw the face of the Maid again!  I saw her upraised eyes, and her hands clasped to her breast, holding thereto a rough wooden cross, whilst someone from below held high in the air a crucifix taken from some church and fastened upon a long wand.

The pile on which she stood was so high—­so high; they said it was done in mercy, that the rising clouds of smoke might choke her ere the flame touched her.  She was clad in a long white garment from head to foot; her hair had grown and fell about and back from her face in a soft cloud gilded by the sun’s rays.  Her face was rapt—­smiling—­yes, I will swear it—­smiling, as a child smiles up into the face of its father.

There was an awful hush throughout the wide place.  Everything reeled and swam before me; but I saw that face—­that serene and smiling face, wan and pale, but tranquil and glad and triumphant.

Then came the rush of smoke, and the glare of ruddy fire.  A stifled cry, like one immense groan rose from below—­above in the reek and blaze all was silent.  But from out that fire I saw—­yes, and another saw it too (an English soldier, rushing to add a faggot to the pyre, a token of his hate to the Maid), and it so wrought upon him that he dropped his burden, fell upon his knees and was like to die of the fear—­I saw a white dove rise from the smoke wreaths of that ghastly pile, hover a moment, just touched by the glare of the fire, and then dart heavenwards as upon eagle’s wings.