But alas! now came these shameful words from Cauchon—­and with them a mocking laugh: 

“Take her to the prison whence she came!”

Poor abused girl!  She stood dumb, smitten, paralyzed.  It was pitiful to see.  She had been beguiled, lied to, betrayed; she saw it all now.

The rumbling of a drum broke upon the stillness, and for just one moment she thought of the glorious deliverance promised by her Voices—­I read it in the rapture that lit her face; then she saw what it was—­her prison escort—­and that light faded, never to revive again.  And now her head began a piteous rocking motion, swaying slowly, this way and that, as is the way when one is suffering unwordable pain, or when one’s heart is broken; then drearily she went from us, with her face in her hands, and sobbing bitterly.

  21 Respited Only for Torture

There is no certainty that any one in all Rouen was in the secret of the deep game which Cauchon was playing except the Cardinal of Winchester.  Then you can imagine the astonishment and stupefaction of that vast mob gathered there and those crowds of churchmen assembled on the two platforms, when they saw Joan of Arc moving away, alive and whole—­slipping out of their grip at last, after all this tedious waiting, all this tantalizing expectancy.

Nobody was able to stir or speak for a while, so paralyzing was the universal astonishment, so unbelievable the fact that the stake was actually standing there unoccupied and its prey gone.

Then suddenly everybody broke into a fury of rage; maledictions and charges of treachery began to fly freely; yes, and even stones:  a stone came near killing the Cardinal of Winchester—­it just missed his head.  But the man who threw it was not to blame, for he was excited, and a person who is excited never can throw straight.

The tumult was very great, indeed, for a while.  In the midst of it a chaplain of the Cardinal even forgot the proprieties so far as to oppobriously assail the August Bishop of Beauvais himself, shaking his fist in his face and shouting: 

“By God, you are a traitor!”

“You lie!” responded the Bishop.

He a traitor!  Oh, far from it; he certainly was the last Frenchman that any Briton had a right to bring that charge against.

The Early of Warwick lost his temper, too.  He was a doughty soldier, but when it came to the intellectuals—­when it came to delicate chicane, and scheming, and trickery—­he couldn’t see any further through a millstone than another.  So he burst out in his frank warrior fashion, and swore that the King of England was being treacherously used, and that Joan of Arc was going to be allowed to cheat the stake.  But they whispered comfort into his ear: 

“Give yourself no uneasiness, my lord; we shall soon have her again.”

Perhaps the like tidings found their way all around, for good news travels fast as well as bad.  At any rate, the ragings presently quieted down, and the huge concourse crumbled apart and disappeared.  And thus we reached the noon of that fearful Thursday.