s
Unveils its wonders; and ye see in me
Nought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye,
Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingle
In the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me,
If bearing in my hand th' avenging sword
Of God, I bore in my vain heart a love
To earthly man! Woe to me! It were better
That I never had been born. No more,
No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrath
Of HIM that dwells in me! The eye of man
Desiring me is an abomination
And a horror.

CHARLES. Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her.

JOANNA. Bid the trumpets sound! This loit'ring grieves
And harasses me. Something chases me
From sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission,
Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom.

SCENE V.

A KNIGHT [_in haste_].

CHARLES. How now?

KNIGHT. The enemy has pass'd the Marne;
Is forming as for battle.

JOANNA [_as if inspired_]. Arms and battle!
My soul has cast away its bonds! To arms!
Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest! [_She hastens out_

* * * * *

[_Trumpets sound with a piercing tone, and while the scene is changing
pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle._]

SCENE VI.

[_The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. During the
music, soldiers are seen hastily retreating across the background._]

TALBOT, _leaning upon_ FASTOLF, _and accompanied by_ Soldiers. _Soon
after_, LIONEL.

TALBOT. Here set me down beneath this tree, and you
Betake yourselves again to battle: quick!
I need no help to die.

FASTOLF. O day of woe! [_Lionel enters._
Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel!
Our General expiring of his wounds!

LIONEL. Now God forbid! Rise, noble Talbot! This
Is not a time for you to faint and sink.
Yield not to Death; force faltering Nature
By your strength of soul, that life depart not!

TALBOT. In vain! The day of Destiny is come
That prostrates with the dust our power in France.
In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle,
Have I risk'd our utmost to withstand it:
The bolt has smote and crush'd me, and I lie
To rise no more forever. Rheims is lost;
Make haste to rescue Paris.

LIONEL. Paris has surrender'd
To the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'd
With tidings.

TALBOT [_tears away his bandages_].
Then flow out, ye life-streams;
I am grown to loathe this Sun.

LIONEL. They want me!
Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety