When the preparations had been finished, all noise and movement gradually ceased, and a waiting stillness followed which was solemn and impressive.

And now, by order of Cauchon, an ecclesiastic named Nicholas Midi preached a sermon, wherein he explained that when a branch of the vine—­which is the Church—­becomes diseased and corrupt, it must be cut away or it will corrupt and destroy the whole vine.  He made it appear that Joan, through her wickedness, was a menace and a peril to the Church’s purity and holiness, and her death therefore necessary.  When he was come to the end of his discourse he turned toward her and paused a moment, then he said: 

“Joan, the Church can no longer protect you.  Go in peace!”

Joan had been placed wholly apart and conspicuous, to signify the Church’s abandonment of her, and she sat there in her loneliness, waiting in patience and resignation for the end.  Cauchon addressed her now.  He had been advised to read the form of her abjuration to her, and had brought it with him; but he changed his mind, fearing that she would proclaim the truth—­that she had never knowingly abjured—­and so bring shame upon him and eternal infamy.  He contented himself with admonishing her to keep in mind her wickednesses, and repent of them, and think of her salvation.  Then he solemnly pronounced her excommunicate and cut off from the body of the Church.  With a final word he delivered her over to the secular arm for judgment and sentence.

Joan, weeping, knelt and began to pray.  For whom?  Herself?  Oh, no—­for the King of France.  Her voice rose sweet and clear, and penetrated all hearts with its passionate pathos.  She never thought of his treacheries to her, she never thought of his desertion of her, she never remembered that it was because he was an ingrate that she was here to die a miserable death; she remembered only that he was her King, that she was his loyal and loving subject, and that his enemies had undermined his cause with evil reports and false charges, and he not by to defend himself.  And so, in the very presence of death, she forgot her own troubles to implore all in her hearing to be just to him; to believe that he was good and noble and sincere, and not in any way to blame for any acts of hers, neither advising them nor urging them, but being wholly clear and free of all responsibility for them.  Then, closing, she begged in humble and touching words that all here present would pray for her and would pardon her, both her enemies and such as might look friendly upon her and feel pity for her in their hearts.

There was hardly one heart there that was not touched—­even the English, even the judges showed it, and there was many a lip that trembled and many an eye that was blurred with tears; yes, even the English Cardinal’s—­that man with a political heart of stone but a human heart of flesh.

The secular judge who should have delivered judgment and pronounced sentence was himself so disturbed that he forgot his duty, and Joan went to her death unsentenced—­thus completing with an illegality what had begun illegally and had so continued to the end.  He only said—­to the guards: