“’I, Jehanne la Pucelle, send from prison here in Rouen my tidings of love to Elliot Hume, my first friend among women, and bid her, for my sake, wed him who loves her, Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, my faithful servant, praying that all happiness may go with them.  In witness whereto, my hand being guided to write, I set my name, Jehanne la Pucelle, this ninth day of May, in the year Fourteen hundred and thirty-one.’

“So guide my hand,” she said, taking the pen from my fingers; and thus guided, while my tears fell on her hand, she wrote Jehanne la Pucelle.

“Now,” quoth she, smiling as of old, “we must seal this missive.  Cut off one lock of my hair with your dagger, for my last gift to my first friend, and make the seal all orderly.”

I did as she bade, and, bringing a lighted stick from the brazier, I melted wax.  Then, when it was smooth, she laid on it two hairs from the little sundered lock (as was sometimes her custom), and bade me seal with my own signet, and put the brief in my wallet.

“Now, all is done,” she said.

“Nay, nay,” I said, “to die for thee is more to me than to live in love.  Ah, nay, go forth, I beseech thee!”

“With victory shall I go forth, and now I lay my last commands on the last of all my servants.  If in aught I have ever offended thee, in word or deed, forgive me!”

I could but bow my head, for I was weeping, though her eyes were dry.

“And so, farewell,” she said—­

“As thou art leal and true, begone; it is my order, and make no tarrying.  To-morrow I have much to do, and needs must I sleep while these men are quiet.  Say to thy lady that I love her dearly, and bid her hope, as I also hope.  Farewell!”

She moved her thin hand, which I kissed, kneeling.

Again she said “Farewell,” and turned her back on me as if she would sleep.

Then I hung the chain and key again on the neck of the lourdaud; I put some of the fallen coins in the men’s pouches, but bestowed the dice and tablier in my wallet.  I opened the door, and went forth, not looking back; and so from the castle, showing my pass, and giving the porter another coin.  Then I went home, in the sweet dawn of May, and casting myself on my bed, I wept bitterly, for to-day she should be tormented.

* * * * *

Of the rest I have no mind to tell (though they had not the heart to torture the Maid), for it puts me out of charity with a people who have a name to be Christians, and it is my desire, if I may, to forgive all men before I die.

At Rouen I endured to abide, even until the day of unjust doom, and my reason was that I ever hoped for some miracle, even as her Saints had promised.  But it was their will that she should be made perfect through suffering, and being set free through the gate of fire, should win her victory over unfaith and mortal fear.  Wherefore I stood afar off at the end, seeing nothing of what befell; yet I clearly heard, as did all men there, the last word of her sweet voice, and the cry of JHESUS!