was, subsequently, all but taken on his return, between Rouen and
Paris. As long as this accursed girl lived, who beyond a doubt continued
in prison to practise her sorceries, there was no safety for the
English; perish she must.

The assessors, who had notice instantly given them of her change of
dress, found some hundred English in the court to obstruct their
passage; who, thinking that if these doctors entered they might spoil
all, threatened them with their axes and swords, and chased them out,
calling them "traitors of Armagnacs." Cauchon, introduced with much
difficulty, assumed an air of gayety to pay his court to Warwick, and
said with a laugh, "She is caught."

On the Monday he returned, along with the Inquisitor and eight
assessors, to question the Pucelle, and ask her why she had resumed that
dress. She made no excuse, but, bravely facing the danger, said that the
dress was fitter for her as long as she was guarded by men, and that
faith had not been kept with her. Her saints, too, had told her "that it
was great pity she had abjured to save her life." Still, she did not
refuse to resume woman's dress. "Put me in a seemly and safe prison,"
she said; "I will be good, and do whatever the Church shall wish."

On leaving her the Bishop encountered Warwick and a crowd of English;
and to show himself a good Englishman he said in their tongue,
"Farewell, farewell." This joyous adieu was about synonymous with "Good
evening, good evening; all's over."

On the Tuesday, the judges got up at the Archbishop's palace a court of
assessors as they best might; some of them had assisted at the first
sittings only, others at none; in fact, composed of men of all sorts,
priests, legists, and even three physicians. The judges recapitulated to
them what had taken place, and asked their opinion. This opinion, quite
different from what was expected, was that the prisoner should be
summoned, and her act of abjuration be read over to her. Whether this
was in the power of the judges is doubtful. In the midst of the fury and
swords of a raging soldiery, there was in reality no judge, and no
possibility of judgment. Blood was the one thing wanted; and that of the
judges was, perhaps, not far from flowing. They hastily drew up a
summons, to be served the next morning at eight o'clock; she was not to
appear, save to be burned.

Cauchon sent her a confessor in the morning, brother Martin l'Advenu,
"to prepare her for her death, and pe