ng the crown at Chinon was a romance which she neither expected nor
intended to be believed. For this we have to thank L'Oyseleur and the
rest of the reverend ghouls assembled on that dreadful morning in the
prison.

Jeanne was then dressed, for her last appearance in this world, in the
long white garment of penitence, the robe of sacrifice: and the mitre
was placed on her head which was worn by the victims of the Holy Office.
She was led for the last time down the echoing stair to the crowded
courtyard where her "chariot" awaited her. It was her confessor's part
to remain by her side, and Frere Isambard and Massieu, the officer,
both her friends, were also with her. It is said that L'Oyseleur rushed
forward at this moment, either to accompany her also, or, as many say,
to fling himself at her feet and implore her pardon. He was hustled
aside by the crowd and would have been killed by the English, it is
said, but for Warwick. The bystanders would seem to have been seized
with a sudden disgust for all the priests about, thinking them Jeanne's
friends, the historians insinuate--more likely in scorn and horror of
their treachery. And then the melancholy procession set forth.

The streets were overflowing as was natural, crowded in every part:
eight hundred English soldiers surrounded and followed the cortege,
as the car rumbled along over the rough stones. Not yet had the Maid
attained to the calm of consent. She looked wildly about her at all the
high houses and windows crowded with gazers, and at the throngs that
gaped and gazed upon her on every side. In the midst of the consolations
of the confessor who poured pious words in her ears, other words, the
plaints of a wondering despair fell from her lips, "Rouen! Rouen!" she
said; "am I to die here?" It seemed incredible to her, impossible. She
looked about still for some sign of disturbance, some rising among the
crowd, some cry of "France! France!" or glitter of mail. Nothing: but
the crowds ever gazing, murmuring at her, the soldiers roughly clearing
the way, the rude chariot rumbling on. "Rouen, Rouen! I fear that you
shall yet suffer because of this," she murmured in her distraction, amid
her moanings and tears.

At last the procession came to the Old Market, an open space encumbered
with three erections--one reaching up so high that the shadow of it
seemed to touch the sky, the horrid stake with wood piled up in an
enormous mass, made so high, it is said, in order