they said to her:  “Take everything cheerfully, do not be disturbed by this martyrdom:  thou shalt thence come at last to the kingdom of Heaven.”  And this the voices said simply and absolutely—­that is to say, without fail; she explained that she called It martyrdom because of all the pain and adversity that she had suffered in prison; and she knew not whether she might have still more to suffer, but waited upon our Lord.  She was then asked whether, since her voices had said that she should go to Paradise, she felt assured that she should be saved and not damned in hell; she answered, that she believed firmly what her voices said about her being saved, as firmly as if she were so already.  And when it was said to her that this answer was of great weight, she answered that she herself held it as a great treasure.

We have said that Jeanne’s answers to the Inquisitors in prison had a more familiar form than in the public examination; which seem to prove that they were not unkind to her, further, at least, than by the persistence and tediousness of their questions.  The Bishop for one thing was seldom present; the sittings were frequently presided over by the Deputy Inquisitor, who had made great efforts to be free of the business altogether, and had but very recently been forced into it; so that we may at least imagine, as he was so reluctant, that he did what he could to soften the proceedings.  Jean de la Fontaine, too, was a milder man than her former questioners, and in so small an assembly she could not be disturbed and interrupted by Frere Isambard’s well-meant signs and whispers.  She speaks at length and with a self-disclosure which seems to have little that was painful in it, like one matured into a kind of age by long weariness and trouble, who regards the panorama of her life passing before her with almost a pensive pleasure.  And it is clear that Jeanne’s ear, still so young and keen, notwithstanding that attitude of mind, was still intent upon sounds from without, and that Jeanne’s heart still expected a sudden assault, a great victory for France, which should open her prison doors—­or even a rising in the very judgment hall to deliver her.  How could they keep still outside, Dunois, Alencon, La Hire, the mighty men of valour, while they knew that she was being racked and tortured within?  She who could not bear to be out of the conflict to serve her friends at Compiegne, even when succour from on high had been promised, how was it possible that these gallant knights could live and let her die, their gentle comrade, their dauntless leader?  In those long hours, amid the noise of the guards within and the garrison around, how she must have thought, over and over again, where were they? when were they coming? how often imagined that a louder clang of arms than usual, a rush of hasty feet, meant that they were here!