With the spring came the news of the trial at Rouen--the bitter
hatred of Bishop Cauchon--the awful consummation he had vowed to
bring about.
I know not whether it were folly to hope such a thing, but we three
knights made instantly for the coast and crossed to England, to
seek the ear of the young King there, and plead the cause of the
Maid before him. I need not say how our mission failed. I care not
to recall those sickening days of anxiety and hope deferred, and
utter defeat at the last.
Heartbroken and desperate we returned; and made our way to Rouen.
The whole city was in confusion. Need I say more? That very day,
within an hour, the Maid, the Messenger from God, the Deliverer of
the King, the Saviour of France, was to die by fire, to perish as a
heretic. And the King whom she had saved had not lifted a hand to
save her; the country she had delivered from a crushing disgrace,
stood idly by to watch her perish thus!
Oh, the shame!--the treachery!--the horror! Let me not try to write
of it. The King has striven now to make amends; but I wonder how he
feels sometimes when he sees the May sunshine streaming over the
fair earth--over that realm which he now rules from sea to sea,
when he thinks of the Maid who was led forth in that blaze of glory
to meet her fiery doom.
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