The Bishop continued to insist.  Joan answered that “she would tell what she knew—­but not all that she knew.”

The Bishop plagued her straight along, till at last she said, in a weary tone: 

“I came from God; I have nothing more to do here.  Return me to God, from whom I came.”

It was piteous to hear; it was the same as saying, “You only want my life; take it and let me be at peace.”

The Bishop stormed out again: 

“Once more I command you to—­”

Joan cut in with a nonchalant “Passez outre,” and Cauchon retired from the struggle; but he retired with some credit this time, for he offered a compromise, and Joan, always clear-headed, saw protection for herself in it and promptly and willingly accepted it.  She was to swear to tell the truth “as touching the matters et down in the proces verbal.”  They could not sail her outside of definite limits, now; her course was over a charted sea, henceforth.  The Bishop had granted more than he had intended, and more than he would honestly try to abide by.

By command, Beaupere resumed his examination of the accused.  It being Lent, there might be a chance to catch her neglecting some detail of her religious duties.  I could have told him he would fail there.  Why, religion was her life!

“Since when have you eaten or drunk?”

If the least thing had passed her lips in the nature of sustenance, neither her youth nor the fact that she was being half starved in her prison could save her from dangerous suspicion of contempt for the commandments of the Church.

“I have done neither since yesterday at noon.”

The priest shifted to the Voices again.

“When have you heard your Voice?”

“Yesterday and to-day.”

“At what time?”

“Yesterday it was in the morning.”

“What were you doing then?”

“I was asleep and it woke me.”

“By touching your arm?”

“No, without touching me.”

“Did you thank it?  Did you kneel?”

He had Satan in his mind, you see; and was hoping, perhaps, that by and by it could be shown that she had rendered homage to the arch enemy of God and man.

“Yes, I thanked it; and knelt in my bed where I was chained, and joined my hands and begged it to implore God’s help for me so that I might have light and instruction as touching the answers I should give here.”

“Then what did the Voice say?”

“It told me to answer boldly, and God would help me.”  Then she turned toward Cauchon and said, “You say that you are my judge; now I tell you again, take care what you do, for in truth I am sent of God and you are putting yourself in great danger.”

Beaupere asked her if the Voice’s counsels were not fickle and variable.

“No.  It never contradicts itself.  This very day it has told me again to answer boldly.”

“Has it forbidden you to answer only part of what is asked you?”