he supplication of the solemn chant,
'_Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!_' been raised from a more tragic
place, or on a more heart-stirring occasion. Outside, in the street,
and all around the prison gates, knelt the weeping people, fervently
praying, and earnestly invoking the Almighty and His saints for her
who was about to lay down her young life in their behalf. 'Christ have
pity! Saint Margaret have pity! Pray for her, all ye saints,
archangels, and blessed martyrs, pray for her! Saints and angels
intercede for her! From Thy wrath, good Lord, deliver her! O, Lord
God, save her! Have mercy on her, we beseech thee, good Lord!' The
poor, helpless people had nothing but their prayers to give Joan of
Arc; but these we may believe were not unavailing. There are few more
pathetic events recorded in history than this weeping, helpless,
praying crowd, holding their lighted candles, and kneeling, on the
pavement, beneath the prison walls of the old fortress.

It was about nine o'clock when they placed on Joan of Arc a long white
shirt, such as criminals wore at their execution, and on her head they
set a mitre-shaped paper cap, on which the words 'heretic, relapsed,
apostate, idolatress,' were written.

This was the head-dress which the victims of the Inquisition carried,
and in which they were burnt.

When Joan of Arc was taken forth to die, there mounted with her on to
the cart the two priests, Martin Ladvenu and Isambard. Eight hundred
English troops lined the road by which the death-cart and its load
passed from the castle to the old market-place; they were armed with
staves and with axes. These soldiers, as the victim passed, fell into
line behind the cart, and kept off with their staves the crowd, eager
to show its sympathy for Joan.

Suddenly, when as yet the procession had gone but a short distance, a
man pushed his way through the crowd and the soldiers, and threw
himself at Joan of Arc's feet, imploring her forgiveness.

It was the priest Loiseleur, Joan's confessor and betrayer. Roughly
thrown back by the men-at-arms, Loiseleur disappeared in the throng,
but not before Joan had bestowed her pardon on him. On the old
market-place--where now not a single building remains which witnessed
the tragedy of that day--was a wide space, surrounded by picturesquely
gabled and high-roofed houses, like those which still survive in the
old Norman capital, and within a short distance of the churches of
Saint Sauveur and Sai