Twenty steps in front of the platforms was another—­a table-topped pyramid of stone, built up in retreating courses, thus forming steps.  Out of this rose that grisly thing, the stake; about the stake bundles of fagots and firewood were piled.  On the ground at the base of the pyramid stood three crimson figures, the executioner and his assistants.  At their feet lay what had been a goodly heap of brands, but was now a smokeless nest of ruddy coals; a foot or two from this was a supplemental supply of wood and fagots compacted into a pile shoulder-high and containing as much as six packhorse loads.  Think of that.  We seem so delicately made, so destructible, so insubstantial; yet it is easier to reduce a granite statue to ashes than it is to do that with a man’s body.

The sight of the stake sent physical pains tingling down the nerves of my body; and yet, turn as I would, my eyes would keep coming back t it, such fascination has the gruesome and the terrible for us.

The space occupied by the platforms and the stake was kept open by a wall of English soldiery, standing elbow to elbow, erect and stalwart figures, fine and sightly in their polished steel; while from behind them on every hand stretched far away a level plain of human heads; and there was no window and no housetop within our view, howsoever distant, but was black with patches and masses of people.

But there was no noise, no stir; it was as if the world was dead.  The impressiveness of this silence and solemnity was deepened by a leaden twilight, for the sky was hidden by a pall of low-hanging storm-clouds; and above the remote horizon faint winkings of heat-lightning played, and now and then one caught the dull mutterings and complainings of distant thunder.

At last the stillness was broken.  From beyond the square rose an indistinct sound, but familiar—­court, crisp phrases of command; next I saw the plain of heads dividing, and the steady swing of a marching host was glimpsed between.  My heart leaped for a moment.  Was it La Hire and his hellions?  No—­that was not their gait.  No, it was the prisoner and her escort; it was Joan of Arc, under guard, that was coming; my spirits sank as low as they had been before.  Weak as she was they made her walk; they would increase her weakness all they could.  The distance was not great—­it was but a few hundred yards—­but short as it was it was a heavy tax upon one who had been lying chained in one spot for months, and whose feet had lost their powers from inaction.  Yes, and for a year Joan had known only the cool damps of a dungeon, and now she was dragging herself through this sultry summer heat, this airless and suffocating void.  As she entered the gate, drooping with exhaustion, there was that creature Loyseleur at her side with his head bent to her ear.  We knew afterward that he had been with her again this morning in the prison wearying her with his persuasions and enticing her with false promises, and that he was now still at the same work at the gate, imploring her to yield everything that would be required of her, and assuring her that if she would do this all would be well with her:  she would be rid of the dreaded English and find safety in the powerful shelter and protection of the Church.  A miserable man, a stony-hearted man!