The court took note of this straitly worded refusal, and would hope to get profit out of it; but the matter was dropped for the present, and a long chase was then made over the old hunting-ground—­the fairies, the visions, the male attire, and all that.

In the afternoon the satanic Bishop himself took the chair and presided over the closing scenes of the trial.  Along toward the finish, this question was asked by one of the judges: 

“You have said to my lord the Bishop that you would answer him as you would answer before our Holy Father the Pope, and yet there are several questions which you continually refuse to answer.  Would you not answer the Pope more fully than you have answered before my lord of Beauvais?  Would you not feel obliged to answer the Pope, who is the Vicar of God, more fully?”

Now a thunder-clap fell out of a clear sky: 

“Take me to the Pope.  I will answer to everything that I ought to.”

It made the Bishop’s purple face fairly blanch with consternation.  If Joan had only known, if she had only know!  She had lodged a mine under this black conspiracy able to blow the Bishop’s schemes to the four winds of heaven, and she didn’t know it.  She had made that speech by mere instinct, not suspecting what tremendous forces were hidden in it, and there was none to tell her what she had done.  I knew, and Manchon knew; and if she had known how to read writing we could have hoped to get the knowledge to her somehow; but speech was the only way, and none was allowed to approach her near enough for that.  So there she sat, once more Joan of Arc the Victorious, but all unconscious of it.  She was miserably worn and tired, by the long day’s struggle and by illness, or she must have noticed the effect of that speech and divined the reason of it.

She had made many master-strokes, but this was the master-stroke.  It was an appeal to Rome.  It was her clear right; and if she had persisted in it Cauchon’s plot would have tumbled about his ears like a house of cards, and he would have gone from that place the worst-beaten man of the century.  He was daring, but he was not daring enough to stand up against that demand if Joan had urged it.  But no, she was ignorant, poor thing, and did not know what a blow she had struck for life and liberty.

France was not the Church.  Rome had no interest in the destruction of this messenger of God.

Rome would have given her a fair trial, and that was all that her cause needed.  From that trial she would have gone forth free, and honored, and blessed.

But it was not so fated.  Cauchon at once diverted the questions to other matters and hurried the trial quickly to an end.

As Joan moved feebly away, dragging her chains, I felt stunned and dazed, and kept saying to myself, “Such a little while ago she said the saving word and could have gone free; and now, there she goes to her death; yes, it is to her death, I know it, I feel it.  They will double the guards; they will never let any come near her now between this and her condemnation, lest she get a hint and speak that word again.  This is the bitterest day that has come to me in all this miserable time.”