however, the fountain of abuse did not cease.  The Bishop himself rose, and once more by way of exhorting her to a final repentance, heaped ill names upon her helpless head.  The narrative shows that the prisoner, now arrived at the last point in her career, paid no attention to the tirade levelled at her from the president’s place.  “She knelt down on the platform showing great signs and appearance of contrition, so that all those who looked upon her wept.  She called on her knees upon the blessed Trinity, the blessed glorious Virgin Mary, and all the blessed saints of Paradise.”  She called specially—­was it with still a return towards the hoped for miracle? was it with the instinctive cry towards an old and faithful friend?—­“St. Michael, St. Michael, St. Michael, help!” There would seem to have been a moment in which the hush and silence of a great crowd surrounded this wonderful stage, where was that white figure on her knees, praying, speaking—­sometimes to God, sometimes to the saintly unseen companions of her life, sometimes in broken phrases to those about her.  She asked the priests, thronging all round, those who had churches, to say a mass for her soul.  She asked all whom she might have offended to forgive her.  Through her tears and prayers broke again and again the sorrowful cry of “Rouen, Rouen!  Is it here truly that I must die?” No reason is given for the special pang that seems to echo in this cry.  Jeanne had once planned a campaign in Normandy with Alencon.  Had there been perhaps some special hope which made this conclusion all the more bitter, of setting up in the Norman capital her standard and that of her King?

There have been martyrs more exalted above the circumstances of their fate than Jeanne.  She was no abstract heroine.  She felt every pang to the depth of her natural, spontaneous being, and the humiliation and the deep distress of having been abandoned in the sight of men, perhaps the profoundest pang of which nature is capable.  “He trusted in God that he would deliver him:  let him deliver him if he will have him.”  That which her Lord had borne, the little sister had now to bear.  She called upon the saints, but they did not answer.  She was shamed in the sight of men.  But as she knelt there weeping, the Bishop’s evil voice scarcely silenced, the soldiers waiting impatient—­the entire crowd, touched to its heart with one impulse, broke into a burst of weeping and lamentation, “a chaudes larmes” according to the graphic French expression.  They wept hot tears as in the keen personal pang of sorrow and fellow-feeling and impotence to help.  Winchester—­withdrawn high on his platform, ostentatiously separated from any share in it, a spectator merely—­wept; and the judges wept.  The Bishop of Boulogne was overwhelmed with emotion, iron tears flowed down the accursed Cauchon’s cheeks.  The very world stood still to see that white form of purity, and valour, and faith, the Maid, not shouting triumphant on the height of victory, but kneeling, weeping, on the verge of torture.  Human nature could not bear this long.  A hoarse cry burst forth:  “Will you keep us here all day; must we dine here?” a voice perhaps of unendurable pain that simulated cruelty.  And then the executioner stepped in and seized the victim.