“In the name of the Holy Trinity, I, Jeanne de Belfiel, daughter of the Baron de Cose, I, the unworthy Superior of the Convent of the Ursulines of Loudun, ask pardon of God and man for the crime I have committed in accusing the innocent Urbain Grandier.  My possession was feigned, my words were dictated; remorse overwhelms me.”

“Bravo!” cried the spectators, clapping their hands.  The judges arose; the archers, in doubt, looked at the president; he shook in every limb, but did not change countenance.

“Let all be silent,” he said, in a sharp voice; “archers, do your duty.”

This man felt himself supported by so strong a hand that nothing could affright him—­for no thought of Heaven ever visited him.

“What think you, my fathers?” said he, making a sign to the monks.

“That the demon seeks to save his friend.  Obmutesce, Satanas!” cried Father Lactantius, in a terrible voice, affecting to exorcise the Superior.

Never did fire applied to gunpowder produce an effect more instantaneous than did these two words.  Jeanne de Belfiel started up in all the beauty of twenty, which her awful nudity served to augment; she seemed a soul escaped from hell appearing to, her seducer.  With her dark eyes she cast fierce glances upon the monks; Lactantius lowered his beneath that look.  She took two steps toward him with her bare feet, beneath which the scaffolding rung, so energetic was her movement; the taper seemed, in her hand, the sword of the avenging angel.

“Silence, impostor!” she cried, with warmth; “the demon who possessed me was yourself.  You deceived me; you said he was not to be tried.  To-day, for the first time, I know that he is to be tried; to-day, for the first time, I know that he is to be murdered.  And I will speak!”

“Woman, the demon bewilders thee.”

“Say, rather, that repentance enlightens me.  Daughters, miserable as myself, arise; is he not innocent?”

“We swear he is,” said the two young lay sisters, still kneeling and weeping, for they were not animated with so strong a resolution as that of the Superior.

Agnes, indeed, had hardly uttered these words when turning toward the people, she cried, “Help me! they will punish me; they will kill me!” And hurrying away her companion, she drew her into the crowd, who affectionately received them.  A thousand voices swore to protect them.  Imprecations arose; the men struck their staves against the floor; the officials dared not prevent the people from passing the sisters on from one to another into the street.