that invoked her aid, in
her own quarters. She wept as she beheld, stretched on the field of battle,
so many brave enemies that had died without confession. And, as regarded
herself, her elation expressed itself thus:--on the day when she had
finished her work, she wept; for she knew that, when her task was done, her
end must be approaching. Her aspirations pointed only to a place, which
seemed to her more than usually full of natural piety, as one in which it
would give her pleasure to die. And she uttered, between smiles and tears,
as a wish that inexpressibly fascinated her heart, and yet was half
fantastic, a broken prayer that God would return her to the solitudes from
which he had drawn her, and suffer her to become a shepherdess once more.
It was a natural prayer, because nature has laid a necessity upon every
human heart to seek for rest, and to shrink from torment. Yet, again, it
was a half-fantastic prayer, because, from childhood upwards, visions that
she had no power to mistrust, and the voices which sounded in her ear for
ever, had long since persuaded her mind, that for _her_ no such prayer
could be granted. Too well she felt that her mission must be worked out to
the end, and that the end was now at hand. All went wrong from this time.
She herself had created the _funds_ out of which the French restoration
should grow; but she was not suffered to witness their development, or
their prosperous application. More than one military plan was entered upon
which she did not approve. But she still continued to expose her person
as before. Severe wounds had not taught her caution. And at length, in a
sortie from Compeigne, whether through treacherous collusion on the part
of her own friends is doubtful to this day, she was made prisoner by the
Burgundians, and finally surrendered to the English.

Now came her trial. This trial, moving of course under English influence,
was conducted in chief by the Bishop of Beauvais. He was a Frenchman, sold
to English interests, and hoping, by favor of the English leaders, to
reach the highest preferment. _Bishop that art, Archbishop that shalt be,
Cardinal that mayest be_, were the words that sounded continually in his
ear; and doubtless, a whisper of visions still higher, of a triple crown,
and feet upon the necks of kings, sometimes stole into his heart. M.
Michelet is anxious to keep us in mind that this Bishop was but an agent
of the English. True. But it does not better the