“The fat Bishop has got things as he wants them at last, and says he will lead the vile witch a merry dance and a short one.”

But here and there I glimpsed compassion and distress in a face, and it was not always a French one.  English soldiers feared Joan, but they admired her for her great deeds and her unconquerable spirit.

In the morning Manchon and I went early, yet as we approached the vast fortress we found crowds of men already there and still others gathering.  The chapel was already full and the way barred against further admissions of unofficial persons.  We took our appointed places.  Throned on high sat the president, Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, in his grand robes, and before him in rows sat his robed court—­fifty distinguished ecclesiastics, men of high degree in the Church, of clear-cut intellectual faces, men of deep learning, veteran adepts in strategy and casuistry, practised setters of traps for ignorant minds and unwary feet.  When I looked around upon this army of masters of legal fence, gathered here to find just one verdict and no other, and remembered that Joan must fight for her good name and her life single-handed against them, I asked myself what chance an ignorant poor country-girl of nineteen could have in such an unequal conflict; and my heart sank down low, very low.  When I looked again at that obese president, puffing and wheezing there, his great belly distending and receding with each breath, and noted his three chins, fold above fold, and his knobby and knotty face, and his purple and splotchy complexion, and his repulsive cauliflower nose, and his cold and malignant eyes—­a brute, every detail of him—­my heart sank lower still.  And when I noted that all were afraid of this man, and shrank and fidgeted in their seats when his eye smote theirs, my last poor ray of hope dissolved away and wholly disappeared.

There was one unoccupied seat in this place, and only one.  It was over against the wall, in view of every one.  It was a little wooden bench without a back, and it stood apart and solitary on a sort of dais.  Tall men-at-arms in morion, breastplate, and steel gauntlets stood as stiff as their own halberds on each side of this dais, but no other creature was near by it.  A pathetic little bench to me it was, for I knew whom it was for; and the sight of it carried my mind back to the great court at Poitiers, where Joan sat upon one like it and calmly fought her cunning fight with the astonished doctors of the Church and Parliament, and rose from it victorious and applauded by all, and went forth to fill the world with the glory of her name.

What a dainty little figure she was, and how gentle and innocent, how winning and beautiful in the fresh bloom of her seventeen years!  Those were grand days.  And so recent—­for she was just nineteen now—­and how much she had seen since, and what wonders she had accomplished!

But now—­oh, all was changed now.  She had been languishing in dungeons, away from light and air and the cheer of friendly faces, for nearly three-quarters of a year—­she, born child of the sun, natural comrade of the birds and of all happy free creatures.  She would be weary now, and worn with this long captivity, her forces impaired; despondent, perhaps, as knowing there was no hope.  Yes, all was changed.