All this time there had been a muffled hum of conversation, and rustling of robes and scraping of feet on the floor, a combination of dull noises which filled all the place.  Suddenly: 

“Produce the accused!”

It made me catch my breath.  My heart began to thump like a hammer.  But there was silence now—­silence absolute.  All those noises ceased, and it was as if they had never been.  Not a sound; the stillness grew oppressive; it was like a weight upon one.  All faces were turned toward the door; and one could properly expect that, for most of the people there suddenly realized, no doubt, that they were about to see, in actual flesh and blood, what had been to them before only an embodied prodigy, a word, a phrase, a world-girdling Name.

The stillness continued.  Then, far down the stone-paved corridors, one heard a vague slow sound approaching:  clank . . . clink . . . clank—­Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, in chains!

My head swam; all things whirled and spun about me.  Ah, I was realizing, too.

  5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice

I give you my honor now that I am not going to distort or discolor the facts of this miserable trial.  No, I will give them to you honestly, detail by detail, just as Manchon and I set them down daily in the official record of the court, and just as one may read them in the printed histories.

There will be only this difference:  that in talking familiarly with you shall use my right to comment upon the proceedings and explain them as I go along, so that you can understand them better; also, I shall throw in trifles which came under our eyes and have a certain interest for you and me, but were not important enough to go into the official record. [1] To take up my story now where I left off.  We heard the clanking of Joan’s chains down the corridors; she was approaching.

Presently she appeared; a thrill swept the house, and one heard deep breaths drawn.  Two guardsmen followed her at a short distance to the rear.  Her head was bowed a little, and she moved slowly, she being weak and her irons heavy.  She had on men’s attire—­all black; a soft woolen stuff, intensely black, funereally black, not a speck of relieving color in it from her throat to the floor.  A wide collar of this same black stuff lay in radiating folds upon her shoulders and breast; the sleeves of her doublet were full, down to the elbows, and tight thence to her manacled wrists; below the doublet, tight black hose down to the chains on her ankles.

Half-way to her bench she stopped, just where a wide shaft of light fell slanting from a window, and slowly lifted her face.  Another thrill!—­it was totally colorless, white as snow; a face of gleaming snow set in vivid contrast upon that slender statue of somber unmitigated black.  It was smooth and pure and girlish, beautiful beyond belief, infinitely sad and sweet.  But, dear, dear! when the challenge of those untamed eyes fell upon that judge, and the droop vanished from her form and it straightened up soldierly and noble, my heart leaped for joy; and I said, all is well, all is well—­they have not broken her, they have not conquered her, she is Joan of Arc still!  Yes, it was plain to me now that there was one spirit there which this dreaded judge could not quell nor make afraid.