And so fighting, and loyal to their duty to the last, good simple souls,
they came to their honorable end. Peace to their memories! they were very
dear to me.

Then there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant, still laying
about her with her sword, was seized by her cape and dragged from her
horse. She was borne away a prisoner to the Duke of Burgundy's camp, and
after her followed the victorious army roaring its joy.

The awful news started instantly on its round; from lip to lip it flew;
and wherever it came it struck the people as with a sort of paralysis;
and they murmured over and over again, as if they were talking to
themselves, or in their sleep, "The Maid of Orleans taken! . . . Joan of
Arc a prisoner! . . . the savior of France lost to us!"--and would keep
saying that over, as if they couldn't understand how it could be, or how
God could permit it, poor creatures!

You know what a city is like when it is hung from eaves to pavement with
rustling black? Then you know what Rouse was like, and some other cities.
But can any man tell you what the mourning in the hearts of the peasantry
of France was like? No, nobody can tell you that, and, poor dumb things,
they could not have told you themselves, but it was there--indeed, yes.
Why, it was the spirit of a whole nation hung with crape!

The 24th of May. We will draw down the curtain now upon the most strange,
and pathetic, and wonderful military drama that has been played upon the
stage of the world. Joan of Arc will march no more.

BOOK III TRIAL AND MARTYRDOM