htful details of the king's cruelty. And soon a new proof of his
implacable hatred confirmed the tales of the poor princess.

Louis's ambassadors appeared at the court of Avignon to demand formally
the queen's condemnation.

It was a great day when Joan of Naples pleaded her own cause before
the pope, in the presence of all the cardinals then at Avignon, all the
ambassadors of foreign powers, and all the eminent persons come from
every quarter of Europe to be present at this trial, unique in the
annals of history. We must imagine a vast enclosure, in whose midst upon
a raised throne, as president of the august tribunal, sat God's vicar
on earth, absolute and supreme judge, emblem of temporal and spiritual
power, of authority human and divine. To right and left of the sovereign
pontiff, the cardinals in their red robes sat in chairs set round in a
circle, and behind these princes of the Sacred College stretched rows of
bishops extending to the end of the hall, with vicars, canons, deacons,
archdeacons, and the whole immense hierarchy of the Church. Facing the
pontifical throne was a platform reserved for the Queen of Naples and
her suite. At the pope's feet stood the ambassadors from the King of
Hungary, who played the part of accusers without speaking a word, the
circumstances of the crime and all the proofs having been discussed
beforehand by a committee appointed for the purpose. The rest of the
hall was filled by a brilliant crowd of high dignitaries, illustrious
captains, and noble envoys, all vying with one another in proud display.
Everyone ceased to breathe, all eyes were fixed on the dais whence Joan
was to speak her own defence. A movement of uneasy curiosity made this
compact mass of humanity surge towards the centre, the cardinals above
raised like proud peacocks over a golden harvest-field shaken in the
breeze.

The queen appeared, hand in hand with her uncle, the old Cardinal of
Perigord, and her aunt, the Countess Agnes. Her gait was so modest and
proud, her countenance so melancholy and pure, her looks so open and
confident, that even before she spoke every heart was hers. Joan was now
twenty years of age; her magnificent beauty was fully developed, but an
extreme pallor concealed the brilliance of her transparent satin skin,
and her hollow cheek told the tale of expiation and suffering. Among the
spectators who looked on most eagerly there was a certain young man with
strongly marked features, glowing