the fiery scaffold, the
spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a
coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces
all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature
and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints; these
might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the
voice that called her to death, _that_ she heard forever.

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he
that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he
that sat upon it, was for _her_; but, on the contrary, that she was
for _them_; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the
dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the
privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another
century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well
Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the
lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud,
bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her.

On the Wednesday after Trinity Sunday in 1431, being then about
nineteen years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She
was conducted before midday, guarded by eight hundred spearmen, to a
platform of prodigious height, constructed of wood billets supported
by hollow spaces in every direction, for the creation of air-currents.
"The pile struck terror," says M. Michelet, "by its height." ... There
would be a certainty of calumny arising against her--some people would
impute to her a willingness to recant. No innocence could escape that.
Now, had she really testified this willingness on the scaffold, it
would have argued nothing at all but the weakness of a genial nature
shrinking from the instant approach of torment. And those will often
pity that weakness most, who in their own persons would yield to it
least. Meantime there never was a calumny uttered that drew less
support from the recorded circumstances. It rests upon no positive
testimony, and it has a weight of contradicting testimony to stem....
What else but her meek, saintly demeanor won, from the enemies that
till now had believed her a witch, tears of rapturous admiration? "Ten
thousand men," says M. Michelet himself, "ten thousand men wept; and
of these ten thousand the majority were political enemies knitted
together by cords of superstition." What else was it but her
consta