Laura Richards
Joan of Arc
The Bailiff of Rouen waved his hand, saying "Away with her."
Quietly, patiently, the Maid climbed the third scaffold. She was well used to climbing; witness the walls of Les Tourelles, of Jargeau and Compiègne. Beside her climbed her confessor, Martin Ladvenu, and some say another Dominican, Isambart de la Pierre, who had been kind to her throughout. She begged for a cross; an English soldier hastily bound two sticks together cross-fashion and handed her the emblem. She kissed it devoutly, and thrust it in her bosom. Then, at her urgent prayer, they brought a crucifix from a church hard by; this she long embraced, holding it while they chained her to the stake.
When the flames began to mount, she bade the friar leave her, but begged him to hold aloft the crucifix, that her eyes might rest on it to the last. This man testified that from the heart of the fire, she called steadfastly on her Saints, Catherine, Margaret, Michael, as if they were once more about her as in the garden of Domrémy.
"To the end she maintained that her Voices were from God, and all she had done was by God's counsel; nor did she believe that her Voices had deceived her."
At the last she gave one great cry: "Jesus!" and spoke no more.
Have you felt the touch of fire? Put your finger in the candle flame for a moment! Then, for another moment – not more, since that way madness lies – think of that white, tender body of the Maid of France flaming like a torch to Heaven!
A torch indeed. Fiercely its blaze beats upon Rouen Old Market, throwing a dreadful light on those watching faces. Pierre de Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, on your face it glares most fiercely; on yours, Henry Beaufort, Cardinal of Winchester; Earl of Warwick, on yours. I think you will see that light while you live, however dark the night around you. I know that by it alone we see your faces to-day.
A torch, indeed. Its flame brightens the sacred fields of France, now in the hour of Victory, when light has triumphed over darkness, as it brightened them in the hour of her agony, though God alone saw that radiance. In the white fire of that torch were fused all incoherent elements, all that turned the sword of brother against brother, Frenchman against Frenchman. From that white fire sprang, into enduring life and glory, France Imperishable.
