Act IV, Scene IX
Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY (who enters with great emotion).
SHREWSBURY. Hold fast, my queen, they wish to hurry thee;
[Seeing DAVISON with the paper.
Be firm--or is it then decided?--is it Indeed decided? I behold a paper Of ominous appearance in his hand; Let it not at this moment meet thy eyes, My queen!----
ELIZABETH. Good Shrewsbury! I am constrained----
SHREWSBURY. Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England, Here must thy majesty assert its rights: Command those savage voices to be silent, Who take upon themselves to put constraint Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment. Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people; Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal, And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.
BURLEIGH. Judgment has long been past. It is not now The time to speak but execute the sentence.
KENT (who upon SHREWSBURY'S entry had retired, comes back). The tumult gains apace; there are no means To moderate the people.
ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY). See, my lord, How they press on.
SHREWSBURY. I only ask a respite; A single word traced by thy hand decides The peace, the happiness of all thy life! Thou hast for years considered, let not then A moment ruled by passion hurry thee-- But a short respite--recollect thyself! Wait for a moment of tranquillity.
BURLEIGH (violently). Wait for it--pause--delay--till flames of fire Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt Of murder be successful! God, indeed, Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape Was marvellous, and to expect again A miracle would be to tempt thy God!
SHREWSBURY. That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee, Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength To overcome the madman:--he deserves Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice Of justice now, for now is not the time; Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion. Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now Before this living Mary--tremble rather Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary. She will arise, and quit her grave, will range A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost, Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely Will they avenge her when she is no more. They will no more behold the enemy Of their belief, they will but see in her The much-lamented issue of their kings A sacrifice to jealousy and hate. Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go Through London, seek thy people, which till now Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see Another England, and another people; For then no more the godlike dignity Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts, Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee, And make a wilderness in every street-- The last, extremest crime thou hast committed. What head is safe, if the anointed fall?
ELIZABETH. Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned The murderous steel aside; why let you not The dagger take its course? then all these broils Would have been ended; then, released from doubt, And free from blame, I should be now at rest In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth I'm weary of my life, and of my crown. If Heaven decree that one of us two queens Must perish, to secure the other's life-- And sure it must be so--why should not I Be she who yields? My people must decide; I give them back the sovereignty they gave. God is my witness that I have not lived For my own sake, but for my people's welfare. If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart, The younger sovereign, more happy days, I will descend with pleasure from the throne, Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers, Where once I spent my unambitious youth; Where far removed from all the vanities Of earthly power, I found within myself True majesty. I am not made to rule-- A ruler should be made of sterner stuff: My heart is soft and tender. I have governed These many years this kingdom happily, But then I only needed to make happy: Now, comes my first important regal duty, And now I feel how weak a thing I am.
BURLEIGH. Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen, My royal liege, speak such unroyal words, I should betray my office, should betray My country, were I longer to be silent. You say you love your people 'bove yourself, Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart, And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord. Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen The ancient superstition be renewed? The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate In pomp march hither; lock our churches up, Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you The souls of all your subjects--as you now Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost! Here is no time for mercy;--to promote Your people's welfare is your highest duty. If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I Will save both you and England--that is more!
ELIZABETH. I would be left alone. No consolation, No counsel can be drawn from human aid In this conjecture:--I will lay my doubts Before the Judge of all:--I am resolved To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.
[To DAVISON, who lays the paper on the table.
You, sir, remain in waiting--close at hand.
[The lords withdraw, SHREWSBURY alone stands for a few moments before the QUEEN, regards her significantly, then withdraws slowly, and with an expression of the deepest anguish.
Act IV, Scene X
ELIZABETH alone.
Oh! servitude of popularity! Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I Of flattering this idol, which my soul Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when Shall I once more be free upon this throne? I must respect the people's voice, and strive To win the favor of the multitude, And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he Alone, who in his actions does not heed The fickle approbation of mankind. Have I then practised justice, all my life Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this Only to bind my hands against this first, This necessary act of violence? My own example now condemns myself! Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister, My predecessor, I could fearless then Have shed this royal blood:--but am I now Just by my own free choice? No--I was forced By stern necessity to use this virtue; Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills. Surrounded by my foes, my people's love Alone supports me on my envied throne. All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me; The pope's inveterate decree declares me Accursed and excommunicated. France Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares At sea a fierce exterminating war; Thus stand I, in contention with the world, A poor defenceless woman: I must seek To veil the spot in my imperial birth, By which my father cast disgrace upon me: In vain with princely virtues would I hide it; The envious hatred of my enemies Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart, A threatening fiend, before me evermore!
[Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.
Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall! I will have peace. She is the very fury Of my existence; a tormenting demon, Which destiny has fastened on my soul. Wherever I had planted me a comfort, A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed By this infernal viper! She has torn My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me. The hated name of every ill I feel Is Mary Stuart--were but she no more On earth I should be free as mountain air.
[Standing still.
With what disdain did she look down on me, As if her eye should blast me like the lightning! Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms, Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.
[Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.
I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch, I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st. Thy death will make my birth legitimate. The moment I destroy thee is the doubt Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right. As soon as England has no other choice, My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!
[She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall, and steps back with an expression of terror. After a pause she rings.
Act IV, Scene XI
ELIZABETH, DAVISON.
ELIZABETH. Where are their lordships?
DAVISON. They are gone to quell The tumult of the people. The alarm Was instantly appeased when they beheld The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed A hundred voices--that's the man--he saved The queen; hear him--the bravest man in England! And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed In gentle words the people's violence, And used such strong, persuasive eloquence, That all were pacified, and silently They slunk away.
ELIZABETH. The fickle multitude! Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William; You may retire again---- [As he is going towards the door. And, sir, this paper, Receive it back; I place it in your hands.
DAVISON (casts a look upon the paper, and starts back). My gracious queen--thy name! 'tis then decided.
ELIZABETH. I had but to subscribe it--I have done so-- A paper sure cannot decide--a name Kills not.
DAVISON. Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper Is most decisive--kills--'tis like the lightning, Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll Commands the sheriff and commissioners To take departure straight for Fotheringay, And to the Queen of Scots announce her death, Which must at dawn be put in execution. There is no respite, no discretion here. As soon as I have parted with this writ Her race is run.
ELIZABETH. Yes, sir, the Lord has placed This weighty business in your feeble hands; Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom; I go--and leave you, sir, to do your duty.
[Going.
DAVISON. No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard Your will. The only wisdom that I need Is, word for word, to follow your commands. Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands To see that it be speedily enforced?
ELIZABETH. That you must do as your own prudence dictates.
DAVISON (interrupting her quickly, and alarmed). Not mine--oh, God forbid! Obedience is My only prudence here. No point must now Be left to be decided by your servant. A small mistake would here be regicide, A monstrous crime, from which my soul recoils. Permit me, in this weighty act, to be Your passive instrument, without a will:-- Tell me in plain, undoubted terms your pleasure, What with the bloody mandate I should do.
ELIZABETH. Its name declares its meaning.
DAVISON. Do you, then, My liege, command its instant execution?
ELIZABETH. I said not that; I tremble but to think it.
DAVISON. Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?
ELIZABETH. At your own risk; you answer the event.
DAVISON. I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!
ELIZABETH. My pleasure is that this unhappy business Be no more mentioned to me; that at last I may be freed from it, and that forever.
DAVISON. It costs you but a word--determine then What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?
ELIZABETH. I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.
DAVISON. You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen, You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress, But to remember----
ELIZABETH (stamps on the ground). Insupportable!
DAVISON. Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered Unwittingly, not many months ago, Upon this office; I know not the language Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man. Be patient with me; nor deny your servant A light to lead him clearly to his duty.
[He approaches her in a supplicating posture, she turns her back on him; he stands in despair; then speaks with a tone of resolution.
Take, take again this paper--take it back! Within my hands it is a glowing fire. Select not me, my queen; select not me To serve you in this terrible conjecture.
ELIZABETH. Go, sir;--fulfil the duty of your office.
[Exit.
Act IV, Scene XII
DAVISON, then BURLEIGH.
DAVISON. She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed With this dread paper! How to act I know not; Should I retain it, should I forward it?
[To BURLEIGH, who enters.
Oh! I am glad that you are come, my lord, 'Tis you who have preferred me to this charge; Now free me from it, for I undertook it, Unknowing how responsible it made me. Let me then seek again the obscurity In which you found me; this is not my place.
BURLEIGH. How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant? The queen was with you.
DAVISON. She has quitted me In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me, Save me from this fell agony of doubt! My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!
BURLEIGH. Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!
DAVISON. I may not.
BURLEIGH. How!
DAVISON. She has not yet explained her final will.
BURLEIGH. Explained! She has subscribed it;--give it to me.
DAVISON. I am to execute it, and I am not. Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!
BURLEIGH (urging more violently). It must be now, this moment, executed. The warrant, sir. You're lost if you delay.
DAVISON. So am I also if I act too rashly.
BURLEIGH. What strange infatuation. Give it me.
[Snatches the paper from him, and exit with it.
DAVISON. What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.
Act V, Scene I
The Scene the same as in the First Act.
HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY, also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants, who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings, and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants silently retire.
MELVIL enters.
KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him). Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?
MELVIL. Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.
KENNEDY. After this long, long, painful separation!
MELVIL. A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!
KENNEDY. You come----
MELVIL. To take an everlasting leave Of my dear queen--to bid a last farewell!
KENNEDY. And now at length, now on the fatal morn Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir, I will not question you, how you have fared, Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured, Since you were torn away from us: alas! There will be time enough for that hereafter. O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate To see the dawn of this unhappy day?
MELVIL. Let us not melt each other with our grief. Throughout my whole remaining life, as long As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep; A smile shall never more light up these cheeks, Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside, But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning. Yet on this last sad day I will be firm; Pledge me your word to moderate your grief; And when the rest of comfort all bereft, Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we Will lead her with heroic resolution, And be her staff upon the road to death!
KENNEDY. Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose The queen has need of our support to meet Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend, Who will exhibit the undaunted heart. Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire As best becomes a heroine and queen!
MELVIL. Received she firmly, then, the sad decree Of death?--'tis said that she was not prepared.
KENNEDY. She was not; yet they were far other terrors Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death, But her deliverer, which made her tremble. Freedom was promised us; this very night Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence: And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear, And doubting still if she should trust her honor And royal person to the adventurous youth, Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle; Our ears are startled by repeated blows Of many hammers, and we think we hear The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us, And suddenly and unresisted wakes The sweet desire of life. And now at once The portals are thrown open--it is Paulet, Who comes to tell us--that--the carpenters Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!
[She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.
MELVIL. O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore The queen this terrible vicissitude?
KENNEDY (after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself). Not by degrees can we relinquish life; Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye, The separation must be made, the change From temporal to eternal life; and God Imparted to our mistress at this moment His grace, to cast away each earthly hope, And firm and full of faith to mount the skies. No sign of pallid fear dishonored her; No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last, His only hope; till then she shed no tear-- 'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.
MELVIL. Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?
KENNEDY. She spent the last remainder of the night In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote Her will [1] with her own hand. She now enjoys A moment of repose, the latest slumber Refreshes her weak spirits.
MELVIL. Who attends her?
KENNEDY. None but her women and physician Burgoyn: You seem to look around you with surprise; Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean This show of splendor in the house of death. Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want; But at our death plenty returns to us.
Act V, Scene II
Enter MARGARET CURL.
KENNEDY. How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?
CURL (drying her tears). She is already dressed--she asks for you.
KENNEDY. I go:-- [To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her. But follow not until the queen Has been prepared to see you.
[Exit.
CURL. Melvil, sure, The ancient steward?
MELVIL. Yes, the same.
CURL. Oh, sir, This is a house which needs no steward now! Melvil, you come from London; can you give No tidings of my husband?
MELVIL. It is said He will be set at liberty as soon----
CURL. As soon as our dear queen shall be no more. Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor! He is our lady's murderer--'tis said It was his testimony which condemned him.
MELVIL. 'Tis true.
CURL. Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.
MELVIL. Think, madam, what you say.
CURL. I will maintain it With every sacred oath before the court, I will repeat it in his very face; The world shall hear of nothing else. I say That she dies innocent!
MELVIL.. God grant it true!
[1] The document is now in the British Museum.
Act V, Scene III
Enter HANNAH KENNEDY.
KENNEDY (to CURL). Go, madam, and require a cup of wine-- 'Tis for our lady.
MELVIL. Is the queen then sick?
KENNEDY. She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived By her heroic courage; she believes She has no need of nourishment; yet still A hard and painful task's allotted her. Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph; They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.
MELVIL. May I approach her?
KENNEDY. She will come herself.
Act V, Scene IV
Enter BURGOYN; two women of the chamber follow him, weeping, and in deep mourning.
BURGOYN. Oh, Melvil!
MELVIL. Oh, Burgoyn!
[They embrace silently.
FIRST WOMAN (to the NURSE). She chose to be Alone: she wishes, at this awful moment, For the last time, to commune with her God.
Act V, Scene V
Enter MARGARET CURL, bearing a golden cup of wine; she places it hastily upon the table, and leans, pale and trembling, against a chair.
MELVIL. How, madam! What has frightened you?
KENNEDY. Oh God!
BURGOYN. Speak, madam!
CURL. What, alas! have I beheld!
MELVIL. Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!
CURL. As I went down the staircase which conducts To the great hall below, a door stood open; I looked into the chamber, and I saw-- Oh heaven!
MELVIL. What saw you?
CURL. All the walls were hung With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread With sable cloth, was raised above the floor, And in the middle of the scaffold stood A dreadful sable block! upon it lay A naked, polished axe:--the hall was full Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood, Seemed waiting for the victim!
THE WOMEN. Gracious heaven, Protect our queen!
MELVIL. Be calm; the queen approaches.
Act V, Scene VI
Enter MARY in white and sumptuously arrayed, as for a festival: she wears hanging from her neck, on a row of small beads, an Agnus Dei; a rosary hangs from her girdle; she bears a crucifix in her hand, and a diadem of precious stones binds her hair; her large black veil is thrown back. On her entrance all present fall back on both sides with the most violent expressions of anguish. MELVIL falls involuntarily upon his knees.
MARY (with quiet majesty, looking round the whole circle). Why these complaints? Why weep ye? Ye should rather Rejoice with me, that now at length the end Of my long woe approaches; that my shackles Fall off, my prison opens, and my soul Delighted mounts on seraph's wings, and seeks The land of everlasting liberty. When I was offered up to the oppression Of my proud enemy, was forced to suffer Ignoble taunts, and insults most unfitting A free and sovereign queen, then was the time To weep for me; but as an earnest friend, Beneficent and healing death approaches. All the indignities which I have suffered On earth are covered by his sable wings. The most degraded criminal's ennobled By his last sufferings, by his final exit; I feel again the crown upon my brows. And dignity possess my swelling soul!
[Advancing a few steps.
How! Melvil here! My worthy sir, not so; Arise; you rather come in time to see The triumph of your mistress than her death. One comfort, which I never had expected, Is granted me, that after death my name Will not be quite abandoned to my foes; One friend at least, one partner of my faith, Will be my witness in the hour of death. Say, honest Melvil, how you fared the while In this inhospitable, hostile land? For since the time they tore you from my side My fears for you have oft depressed my soul.
MELVIL. No other evil galled me but my grief For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.
MARY. How fares my chamberlain, old Didier? But sure the faithful servant long has slept The sleep of death, for he was full of years.
MELVIL. God hath not granted him as yet this grace; He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.
MARY. Oh! could I but have felt before my death, The happiness of pressing one descendant Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom. But I must suffer in a foreign land, None but my servants to bewail my fate! Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit My latest wishes. Bear then, sir, my blessing To the most Christian king, my royal brother, And the whole royal family of France. I bless the cardinal, my honored uncle, And also Henry Guise, my noble cousin. I bless the holy father, the vicegerent Of Christ on earth, who will, I trust, bless me. I bless the King of Spain, who nobly offered Himself as my deliverer, my avenger. They are remembered in my will: I hope That they will not despise, how poor soe'er They be, the presents of a heart which loves them.
[Turning to her servants.
I have bequeathed you to my royal brother Of France; he will protect you, he will give you Another country, and a better home; And if my last desire have any weight, Stay not in England; let no haughty Briton Glut his proud heart with your calamities, Nor see those in the dust who once were mine. Swear by this image of our suffering Lord To leave this fatal land when I'm no more.
MELVIL (touching the crucifix). I swear obedience in the name of all.
MARY. What I, though poor and plundered, still possess, Of which I am allowed to make disposal, Shall be amongst you shared; for I have hope In this at least my will may be fulfilled. And what I wear upon my way to death Is yours--nor envy me on this occasion The pomp of earth upon the road to heaven.
[To the ladies of her chamber.
To you, my Alice, Gertrude, Rosamund, I leave my pearls, my garments: you are young, And ornament may still delight your hearts. You, Margaret, possess the nearest claims, To you I should be generous: for I leave you The most unhappy woman of them all. That I have not avenged your husband's fault On you I hope my legacy will prove. The worth of gold, my Hannah, charms not thee; Nor the magnificence of precious stones: My memory, I know, will be to thee The dearest jewel; take this handkerchief, I worked it for thee, in the hours of sorrow, With my own hands, and my hot, scalding tears Are woven in the texture:--you will bind My eyes with this, when it is time: this last Sad service I would wish but from my Hannah.
KENNEDY. O Melvil! I cannot support it.
MARY. Come, Come all and now receive my last farewell.
[She stretches forth her hands; the WOMEN violently weeping, fall successively at her feet, and kiss her outstretched hand.
Margaret, farewell--my Alice, fare thee well; Thanks, Burgoyn, for thy honest, faithful service-- Thy lips are hot, my Gertrude:--I have been Much hated, yet have been as much beloved. May a deserving husband bless my Gertrude, For this warm, glowing heart is formed for love. Bertha, thy choice is better, thou hadst rather Become the chaste and pious bride of heaven; Oh! haste thee to fulfil thy vows; the goods Of earth are all deceitful; thou may'st learn This lesson from thy queen. No more; farewell, Farewell, farewell, my friends, farewell for ever.
[She turns suddenly from them; all but MELVIL retire at different sides.
Act V, Scene VII
MARY, MELVIL.
MARY (after the others are all gone). I have arranged all temporal concerns, And hope to leave the world in debt to none; Melvil, one thought alone there is which binds My troubled soul, nor suffers it to fly Delighted and at liberty to heaven.
MELVIL. Disclose it to me; ease your bosom, trust Your doubts, your sorrows, to your faithful friend.
MARY. I see eternity's abyss before me; Soon must I stand before the highest Judge, And have not yet appeased the Holy One. A priest of my religion is denied me, And I disdain to take the sacrament, The holy, heavenly nourishment, from priests Of a false faith; I die in the belief Of my own church, for that alone can save.
MELVIL. Compose your heart; the fervent, pious wish Is prized in heaven as high as the performance. The might of tyrants can but bind the hands, The heart's devotion rises free to God, The word is dead--'tis faith which brings to life.
MARY. The heart is not sufficient of itself; Our faith must have some earthly pledge to ground Its claim to the high bliss of heaven. For this Our God became incarnate, and enclosed Mysteriously his unseen heavenly grace Within an outward figure of a body. The church it is, the holy one, the high one, Which rears for us the ladder up to heaven:-- 'Tis called the Catholic Apostolic church,-- For 'tis but general faith can strengthen faith; Where thousands worship and adore the heat Breaks out in flame, and, borne on eagle wings, The soul mounts upwards to the heaven of heavens. Ah! happy they, who for the glad communion Of pious prayer meet in the house of God! The altar is adorned, the tapers blaze, The bell invites, the incense soars on high; The bishop stands enrobed, he takes the cup, And blessing it declares the solemn mystery, The transformation of the elements; And the believing people fall delighted To worship and adore the present Godhead. Alas! I only am debarred from this; The heavenly benediction pierces not My prison walls: its comfort is denied me.
MELVIL. Yes! it can pierce them--put thy trust in Him Who is almighty--in the hand of faith, The withered staff can send forth verdant branches And he who from the rock called living water, He can prepare an altar in this prison, Can change---- [Seizing the cup, which stands upon the table. The earthly contents of this cup Into a substance of celestial grace.
MARY. Melvil! Oh, yes, I understand you, Melvil! Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament; But the Redeemer says, "When two or three Are in my name assembled, I am with them," What consecrates the priest? Say, what ordains him To be the Lord's interpreter? a heart Devoid of guile, and a reproachless conduct. Well, then, though unordained, be you my priest; To you will I confide my last confession, And take my absolution from your lips.
MELVIL. If then thy heart be with such zeal inflamed, I tell thee that for thine especial comfort, The Lord may work a miracle. Thou say'st Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament-- Thou err'st--here is a priest--here is a God; A God descends to thee in real presence.
[At these words he uncovers his head, and shows a host in a golden vessel.
I am a priest--to hear thy last confession, And to announce to thee the peace of God Upon thy way to death. I have received Upon my head the seven consecrations. I bring thee, from his Holiness, this host, Which, for thy use, himself has deigned to bless.
MARY. Is then a heavenly happiness prepared To cheer me on the very verge of death? As an immortal one on golden clouds Descends, as once the angel from on high, Delivered the apostle from his fetters:-- He scorns all bars, he scorns the soldier's sword, He steps undaunted through the bolted portals, And fills the dungeon with his native glory; Thus here the messenger of heaven appears When every earthly champion had deceived me. And you, my servant once, are now the servant Of the Most High, and his immortal Word! As before me your knees were wont to bend, Before you humbled, now I kiss the dust.
[She sinks before him on her knees.
MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross). Hear, Mary, Queen of Scotland:--in the name Of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Hast thou examined carefully thy heart, Swearest thou, art thou prepared in thy confession To speak the truth before the God of truth?
MARY. Before my God and thee, my heart lies open.
MELVIL. What calls thee to the presence of the Highest?
MARY. I humbly do acknowledge to have erred Most grievously, I tremble to approach, Sullied with sin, the God of purity.
MELVIL. Declare the sin which weighs so heavily Upon thy conscience since thy last confession.
MARY. My heart was filled with thoughts of envious hate, And vengeance took possession of my bosom. I hope forgiveness of my sins from God, Yet could I not forgive my enemy.
MELVIL. Repentest thou of the sin? Art thou, in sooth, Resolved to leave this world at peace with all?
MARY. As surely as I wish the joys of heaven.
MELVIL. What other sin hath armed thy heart against thee?
MARY. Ah! not alone through hate; through lawless love Have I still more abused the sovereign good. My heart was vainly turned towards the man Who left me in misfortune, who deceived me.
MELVIL. Repentest thou of the sin? And hast thou turned Thy heart, from this idolatry, to God?
MARY. It was the hardest trial I have passed; This last of earthly bonds is torn asunder.
MELVIL. What other sin disturbs thy guilty conscience?
MARY. A bloody crime, indeed of ancient date, And long ago confessed; yet with new terrors. It now attacks me, black and grisly steps Across my path, and shuts the gates of heaven: By my connivance fell the king, my husband-- I gave my hand and heart to a seducer-- By rigid penance I have made atonement; Yet in my soul the worm is gnawing still.
MELVIL. Has then thy heart no other accusation, Which hath not been confessed and washed away?
MARY. All you have heard with which my heart is charged.
MELVIL. Think on the presence of Omniscience; Think on the punishments with which the church Threatens imperfect and reserved confessions This is the sin to everlasting death, For this is sinning 'gainst his Holy Spirit.
MARY. So may eternal grace with victory Crown my last contest, as I wittingly Have nothing hid----
MELVIL. How? Wilt thou then conceal The crime from God for which thou art condemned? Thou tell'st me nothing of the share thou hadst In Babington and Parry's bloody treason: Thou diest for this a temporal death; for this Wilt thou, too, die the everlasting death?
MARY. I am prepared to meet eternity; Within the narrow limits of an hour I shall appear before my Judge's throne. But, I repeat it, my confession's ended.
MELVIL. Consider well--the heart is a deceiver. Thou hast, perhaps, with sly equivocation, The word avoided, which would make thee guilty Although thy will was party to the crime. Remember, that no juggler's tricks can blind The eye of fire which darts through every breast.
MARY. 'Tis true that I have called upon all princes To free me from unworthy chains; yet 'tis As true that, neither by intent or deed, Have I attempted my oppressor's life.
MELVIL. Your secretaries then have witnessed falsely.
MARY. It is as I have said;--what they have witnessed The Lord will judge.
MELVIL. Thou mountest, then, satisfied Of thy own innocence, the fatal scaffold?
MARY. God suffers me in mercy to atone, By undeserved death, my youth's transgressions.
MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross). Go, then, and expiate them all by death; Sink a devoted victim on the altar, Thus shall thy blood atone the blood thou'st spilt. From female frailty were derived thy faults, Free from the weakness of mortality, The spotless spirit seeks the blest abodes. Now, then, by the authority which God Hath unto me committed, I absolve thee From all thy sins; be as thy faith thy welfare!
[He gives her the host.
Receive the body which for thee was offered--
[He takes the cup which stands upon the table, consecrates it with silent prayer, then presents it to her; she hesitates to take it, and makes signs to him to withdraw it.
Receive the blood which for thy sins was shed, Receive it; 'tis allowed thee by the pope To exercise in death the highest office Of kings, the holy office of the priesthood.
[She takes the cup.
And as thou now, in this his earthly body Hast held with God mysterious communion, So may'st thou henceforth, in his realm of joy, Where sin no more exists, nor tears of woe, A fair, transfigured spirit, join thyself Forever with the Godhead, and forever.
[He sets down the cup; hearing a noise, he covers his head, and goes to the door; MARY remains in silent devotion on her knees.
MELVIL (returning). A painful conflict is in store for thee. Feel'st thou within thee strength enough to smother Each impulse of malignity and hate?
MARY. I fear not a relapse. I have to God Devoted both my hatred and my love.
MELVIL. Well, then, prepare thee to receive my Lords Of Leicester and of Burleigh. They are here.
Act V, Scene VIII
Enter BURLEIGH, LEICESTER, and PAULET.
[LEICESTER remains in the background, without raising his eyes; BURLEIGH, who remarks his confusion, steps between him and the QUEEN.
BURLEIGH. I come, my Lady Stuart, to receive Your last commands and wishes.
MARY. Thanks, my lord.
BURLEIGH. It is the pleasure of my royal mistress That nothing reasonable be denied you.
MARY. My will, my lord, declares my last desires; I've placed it in the hand of Sir Amias, And humbly beg that it may be fulfilled.
PAULET. You may rely on this.
MARY. I beg that all My servants unmolested may return To France, or Scotland, as their wishes lead.
BURLEIGH. It shall be as you wish.
MARY. And since my body Is not to rest in consecrated ground, I pray you suffer this my faithful servant To bear my heart to France, to my relations-- Alas! 'twas ever there.
BURLEIGH. It shall be done. What wishes else?
MARY. Unto her majesty Of England bear a sister's salutation; Tell her that from the bottom of my heart I pardon her my death; most humbly, too, I crave her to forgive me for the passion With which I spoke to her. May God preserve her And bless her with a long and prosperous reign.
BURLEIGH. Say, do you still adhere to your resolve, And still refuse assistance from the dean?
MARY. My lord, I've made my peace with God.
[To PAULET.
Good sir, I have unwittingly caused you much sorrow, Bereft you of your age's only stay. Oh, let me hope you do not hate my name.
PAULET (giving her his hand). The Lord be with you! Go your way in peace.
Act V, Scene IX
HANNAH KENNEDY, and the other women of the QUEEN crowd into the room with marks of horror. The SHERIFF follows them, a white staff in his hand; behind are seen, through the open doors, men under arms.
MARY. What ails thee, Hannah? Yes, my hour is come. The sheriff comes to lead me to my fate, And part we must. Farewell!
KENNEDY and CURL. We will not leave thee, We will not part from thee.
MARY (to MELVIL). You, worthy sir, And my dear, faithful Hannah, shall attend me In my last moments. I am sure, my lord Will not refuse my heart this consolation.
BURLEIGH. For this I have no warrant.
MARY. How, my lord; Can you deny me, then, this small petition? Respect my sex; who shall attend me else, And yield me the last service? Sure, it never Can be my sister's pleasure that in me My sex should be insulted; that these men With their rude hands should touch my royal person.
BURLEIGH. 'Tis ordered that no woman shall ascend The scaffold steps with you. Their tears and moans----
MARY. She shall not weep, my lord; she shall not moan; I answer for my Hannah's resolution; Be merciful; divide me not so soon From my true foster-mother, from my friend. She bore me on her arms into this life; Let her then gently lead me to my death.
PAULET (to BURLEIGH). Yield to her wishes.
BURLEIGH. Be it so.
MARY. I now Have nothing in this world to wish for more.
[She takes the crucifix, and kisses it.
My God! My Comforter! My blest Redeemer! As once thy arms were stretched upon the cross, Let them be now extended to receive me!
[She turns round to go; at the same moment her eyes fall upon LEICESTER, who, on her going, starts involuntarily, and turns his eyes towards her; at this sight MARY trembles, her knees fail her, she is about to fall, when LEICESTER catches at her, and receives her in his arms; she regards him for some time earnestly, and in silence; he cannot support her looks; at length she speaks.
You keep your word, my Lord of Leicester: for You promised me your arm to lead me forth From prison, and you lend it to me now. At length the wished-for day is come, and what Was oft the object of my fondest dreams Is now accomplished: and the Earl of Leicester, The long-expected, the long-wished-for friend, Appears at length in Fotheringay Castle. I see him standing in my prison; all Is ready for the journey; all the gates Stand open, and at length I cross the threshold, Conducted by his hand; and now I leave These dismal walls behind me, and forever. All is fulfilled, and you have saved your honor.
[He stands as if annihilated; she continues, with a gentle voice.
Yes, Leicester; not for liberty alone I wished to be indebted to your hands. You should have made me bless that liberty. Led by your hand, and happy in your love, I hoped once more to taste the joys of life. Yes; now that I'm prepared from all the world To part, and to become a happy spirit, Whom earthly inclinations tempt no more! Now, Leicester, I may venture to confess Without a blush the frailty I have conquered; Farewell, my lord; and, if you can, be happy! To woo two queens has been your daring aim; You have disdained a tender, loving heart, Betrayed it in the hope to win a proud one: Kneel at the feet of Queen Elizabeth! May your reward not prove your punishment. Farewell; I now have nothing more on earth.
[She goes, preceded by the SHERIFF; at her side MELVIL and her nurse; BURLEIGH and PAULET follow; the others, wailing, follow her with their eyes till she disappears; they then retire through the other two doors.
Act V, Scene X
LEICESTER (remaining alone). Do I live still? Can I still bear to live? Will not this roof fall down and bury me? Yawns no abyss to swallow in its gulf The veriest wretch on earth? What have I lost? Oh, what a pearl have I not cast away! What bliss celestial madly dashed aside! She's gone, a spirit purged from earthly stain, And the despair of hell remains for me! Where is the purpose now with which I came To stifle my heart's voice in callous scorn? To see her head descend upon the block With unaverted and indifferent eyes? How doth her presence wake my slumbering shame? Must she in death surround me with love's toils? Lost, wretched man! No more it suits thee now To melt away in womanly compassion: Love's golden bliss lies not upon thy path, Then arm thy breast in panoply of steel, And henceforth be thy brows of adamant! Wouldst thou not lose the guerdon of thy guilt, Thou must uphold, complete it daringly! Pity be dumb; mine eyes be petrified! I'll see--I will be witness of her fall.
[He advances with resolute steps towards the door through which MARY passed; but stops suddenly half way.
No! No! The terrors of all hell possess me. I cannot look upon the dreadful deed; I cannot see her die! Hark! What was that? They are already there. Beneath my feet The bloody business is preparing. Hark! I hear their voices. Hence! Away, away From this abode of misery and death!
[He attempts to escape by another door; finds it locked, and returns.
How! Does some demon chain me to this spot? To hear what I would shudder to behold? That voice--it is the dean's, exhorting her; She interrupts him. Hark--she prays aloud; Her voice is firm--now all is still, quite still! And sobs and women's moans are all I hear. Now, they undress her; they remove the stool; She kneels upon the cushion; lays her head----
[Having spoken these last words, and paused awhile, he is seen with a convulsive motion suddenly to shrink and faint away; a confused hum of voices is heard at the same moment from below, and continues for some time.
Act V, Scene XI
The Second Chamber in the Fourth Act.
ELIZABETH (entering from a side door; her gait and action expressive of the most violent uneasiness). No message yet arrived! What! no one here! Will evening never come! Stands the sun still In its ethereal course? I can no more Remain upon the rack of expectation! Is it accomplished? Is it not? I shudder At both events, and do not dare to ask. My Lord of Leicester comes not,--Burleigh too, Whom I appointed to fulfil the sentence. If they have quitted London then 'tis done, The bolt has left its rest--it cuts the air-- It strikes; has struck already: were my realm At stake I could not now arrest its course. Who's there?
Act V, Scene XII
Enter a PAGE.
ELIZABETH. Returned alone? Where are the lords?
PAGE. My Lord High-Treasurer and the Earl of Leicester?
ELIZABETH. Where are they?
PAGE. They are not in London.
ELIZABETH. No! Where are they then?
PAGE. That no one could inform me; Before the dawn, mysteriously, in haste They quitted London.
ELIZABETH (exultingly). I am Queen of England!
[Walking up and down in the greatest agitation.
Go--call me--no, remain, boy! She is dead; Now have I room upon the earth at last. Why do I shake? Whence comes this aguish dread? My fears are covered by the grave; who dares To say I did it? I have tears enough In store to weep her fall. Are you still here? [To the PAGE. Command my secretary, Davison, To come to me this instant. Let the Earl Of Shrewsbury be summoned. Here he comes.
[Exit PAGE.
Act V, Scene XIII
Enter SHREWSBURY.
ELIZABETH. Welcome, my noble lord. What tidings; say It cannot be a trifle which hath led Your footsteps hither at so late an hour.
SHREWSBURY. My liege, the doubts that hung upon my heart, And dutiful concern for your fair fame, Directed me this morning to the Tower, Where Mary's secretaries, Nau and Curl, Are now confined as prisoners, for I wished Once more to put their evidence to proof. On my arrival the lieutenant seemed Embarrassed and perplexed; refused to show me His prisoners; but my threats obtained admittance. God! what a sight was there! With frantic looks, With hair dishevelled, on his pallet lay The Scot like one tormented by a fury. The miserable man no sooner saw me Than at my feet he fell, and there, with screams, Clasping my knees, and writhing like a worm, Implored, conjured me to acquaint him with His sovereign's destiny, for vague reports Had somehow reached the dungeons of the Tower That she had been condemned to suffer death. When I confirmed these tidings, adding, too, That on his evidence she had been doomed,-- He started wildly up,--caught by the throat His fellow-prisoner; with the giant strength Of madness tore him to the ground and tried To strangle him. No sooner had we saved The wretch from his fierce grapple than at once He turned his rage against himself and beat His breast with savage fists; then cursed himself And his companions to the depths of hell! His evidence was false; the fatal letters To Babington, which he had sworn were true, He now denounced as forgeries; for he Had set down words the queen had never spoken; The traitor Nau had led him to this treason. Then ran he to the casement, threw it wide With frantic force, and cried into the street So loud that all the people gathered round: I am the man, Queen Mary's secretary, The traitor who accused his mistress falsely; I bore false witness and am cursed forever!
ELIZABETH. You said yourself that he had lost his wits; A madman's words prove nothing.
SHREWSBURY. Yet this madness Serves in itself to swell the proof. My liege, Let me conjure thee; be not over-hasty; Prithee, give order for a new inquiry!
ELIZABETH. I will, my lord, because it is your wish, Not that I can believe my noble peers Have in this case pronounced a hasty judgment. To set your mind at rest the inquiry shall Be straight renewed. Well that 'tis not too late! Upon the honor of our royal name, No, not the shadow of a doubt shall rest.
Act V, Scene XIV
Enter DAVISON.
ELIZABETH. The sentence, sir, which I but late intrusted Unto your keeping; where is it?
DAVISON (in the utmost astonishment). The sentence!
ELIZABETH (more urgent). Which yesterday I gave into your charge.
DAVISON. Into my charge, my liege!
ELIZABETH. The people urged And baited me to sign it. I perforce Was driven to yield obedience to their will. I did so; did so on extreme constraint, And in your hands deposited the paper. To gain time was my purpose; you remember What then I told you. Now, the paper, sir!
SHREWSBURY. Restore it, sir, affairs have changed since then, The inquiry must be set on foot anew.
DAVISON. Anew! Eternal mercy!
ELIZABETH. Why this pause, This hesitation? Where, sir, is the paper?
DAVISON. I am undone! Undone! My fate is sealed!
ELIZABETH (interrupting him violently). Let me not fancy, sir----
DAVISON. Oh, I am lost! I have it not.
ELIZABETH. How? What?
SHREWSBURY. Oh, God in heaven!
DAVISON. It is in Burleigh's hands--since yesterday.
ELIZABETH. Wretch! Is it thus you have obeyed my orders? Did I not lay my strict injunction on you To keep it carefully?
DAVISON. No such injunction Was laid on me, my liege.
ELIZABETH. Give me the lie? Opprobrious wretch! When did I order you To give the paper into Burleigh's hands?
DAVISON. Never expressly in so many words.
ELIZABETH. And, paltering villain I dare you then presume To construe, as you list, my words--and lay Your bloody meaning on them? Wo betide you, If evil come of this officious deed! Your life shall answer the event to me. Earl Shrewsbury, you see how my good name Has been abused!
SHREWSBURY. I see! Oh, God in heaven!
ELIZABETH. What say you?
SHREWSBURY. If the knight has dared to act In this, upon his own authority, Without the knowledge of your majesty, He must be cited to the Court of Peers To answer there for subjecting thy name To the abhorrence of all after time.
Act V, Scene XV
Enter BURLEIGH.
BURLEIGH (bowing his knee before the QUEEN). Long life and glory to my royal mistress, And may all enemies of her dominions End like this Stuart.
[SHREWSBURY hides his face. DAVIDSON wrings his hands in despair.
ELIZABETH. Speak, my lord; did you From me receive the warrant?
BURLEIGH. No, my queen; From Davison.
ELIZABETH. And did he in my name Deliver it?
BURLEIGH. No, that I cannot say.
ELIZABETH. And dared you then to execute the writ Thus hastily, nor wait to know my pleasure? Just was the sentence--we are free from blame Before the world; yet it behooved thee not To intercept our natural clemency. For this, my lord, I banish you my presence; And as this forward will was yours alone Bear you alone the curse of the misdeed!
[To DAVISON.
For you, sir; who have traitorously o'erstepped The bounds of your commission, and betrayed A sacred pledge intrusted to your care, A more severe tribunal is prepared: Let him be straight conducted to the Tower, And capital arraignments filed against him. My honest Talbot, you alone have proved, 'Mongst all my counsellors, an upright man: You shall henceforward be my guide--my friend.
SHREWSBURY. Oh! banish not the truest of your friends; Nor cast those into prison, who for you Have acted; who for you are silent now. But suffer me, great queen, to give the seal, Which, these twelve years, I've borne unworthily, Back to your royal hands, and take my leave.
ELIZABETH (surprised). No, Shrewsbury; you surely would not now Desert me? No; not now.
SHREWSBURY. Pardon, I am Too old, and this right hand is growing too stiff To set the seal upon your later deeds.
ELIZABETH. Will he forsake me, who has saved my life?
SHREWSBURY. 'Tis little I have done: I could not save Your nobler part. Live--govern happily! Your rival's dead! Henceforth you've nothing more To fear--henceforth to nothing pay regard.
[Exit.
ELIZABETH (to the EARL of KENT, who enters). Send for the Earl of Leicester.
KENT. He desires To be excused--he is embarked for France.
The Curtain drops.
THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
By Frederich Schiller
Dramatis Personae
CHARLES THE SEVENTH, King of France. QUEEN ISABEL, his Mother. AGNES SOREL. PHILIP THE GOOD, Duke of Burgundy. EARL DUNOIS, Bastard of Orleans. LA HIRE, DUCRATEL, French Offers. ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS. CRATILLON, A Burgundian Knight. RAOUL, a Lotharingian Knight. TALBOT, the English General, LIONEL, FASTOLFE, English Officers. MONTGOMERY, a Welshman. COUNCILLORS OF ORLEANS. AN ENGLISH HERALD. THIBAUT D'ARC, a wealthy Countryman. MARGOT, LOUISON, JOHANNA, his Daughters. ETIENNE, CLAUDE MARIE, RAIMOND, their Suitors. BERTRAND, another Countryman. APPARITION OF A BLACK KNIGHT. CHARCOAL-BURNER AND HIS WIFE. Soldiers and People, Officers of the Crown, Bishops, Monks, Marshals, Magistrates, Courtiers, and other mute persons in the Coronation Procession.
Prologue
A rural District. To the right, a Chapel with an Image of the Virgin; to the left, an ancient Oak.
Scene I
THIBAUT D'ARC. His Three Daughters. Three young Shepherds, their Suitors.
THIBAUT. Ay, my good neighbors! we at least to-day Are Frenchmen still, free citizens and lords Of the old soil which our forefathers tilled. Who knows whom we to-morrow must obey? For England her triumphal banner waves From every wall: the blooming fields of France Are trampled down beneath her chargers' hoofs; Paris hath yielded to her conquering arms, And with the ancient crown of Dagobert Adorns the scion of a foreign race. Our king's descendant, disinherited, Must steal in secret through his own domain; While his first peer and nearest relative Contends against him in the hostile ranks; Ay, his unnatural mother leads them on. Around us towns and peaceful hamlets burn. Near and more near the devastating fire Rolls toward these vales, which yet repose in peace. Therefore, good neighbors, I have now resolved, While God still grants us safety, to provide For my three daughters; for 'midst war's alarms Women require protection, and true love Hath power to render lighter every load. [To the first Shepherd. Come, Etienne! You seek my Margot's hand. Fields lying side by side and loving hearts Promise a happy union! [To the second. Claude! You're silent, And my Louison looks upon the ground? How, shall I separate two loving hearts Because you have no wealth to offer me? Who now has wealth? Our barns and homes afford Spoil to the foe, and fuel to the fires. In times like these a husband's faithful breast Affords the only shelter from the storm.
LOUISON. My father!
CLAUDE MARIE. My Louison!
LOUISON (embracing JOHANNA). My dear sister!
THIBAUT. I give to each a yard, a stall and herd, And also thirty acres; and as God Gave me his blessing, so I give you mine!
MARGOT (embracing JOHANNA). Gladden our father--follow our example! Let this day see three unions ratified!
THIBAUT. Now go; make all things ready; for the morn Shall see the wedding. Let our village friends Be all assembled for the festival.
[The two couples retire arm in arm.
Scene II
THIBAUT, RAIMOND, JOHANNA.
THIBAUT. Thy sisters, Joan, will soon be happy brides; I see them gladly; they rejoice my age; But thou, my youngest, giv'st me grief and pain.
RAIMOND. What is the matter? Why upbraid thy child?
THIBAUT. Here is this noble youth, the flower and pride Of all our village; he hath fixed on thee His fond affections, and for three long years Has wooed thee with respectful tenderness; But thou dost thrust him back with cold reserve. Nor is there one 'mong all our shepherd youths Who e'er can win a gracious smile from thee. I see thee blooming in thy youthful prime; Thy spring it is, the joyous time of hope; Thy person, like a tender flower, hath now Disclosed its beauty, but I vainly wait For love's sweet blossom genially to blow, And ripen joyously to golden fruit! Oh, that must ever grieve me, and betrays Some sad deficiency in nature's work! The heart I like not which, severe and cold, Expands not in the genial years of youth.
RAIMOND. Forbear, good father! Cease to urge her thus! A noble, tender fruit of heavenly growth Is my Johanna's love, and time alone Bringeth the costly to maturity! Still she delights to range among the hills, And fears descending from the wild, free heath, To tarry 'neath the lowly roofs of men, Where dwell the narrow cares of humble life. From the deep vale, with silent wonder, oft I mark her, when, upon a lofty hill Surrounded by her flock, erect she stands, With noble port, and bends her earnest gaze Down on the small domains of earth. To me She looketh then, as if from other times She came, foreboding things of import high.
THIBAUT. 'Tis that precisely which displeases me! She shuns her sisters' gay companionship; Seeks out the desert mountains, leaves her couch Before the crowing of the morning cock, And in the dreadful hour, when men are wont Confidingly to seek their fellow-men, She, like the solitary bird, creeps forth, And in the fearful spirit-realm of night, To yon crossway repairs, and there alone Holds secret commune with the mountain wind. Wherefore this place precisely doth she choose? Why hither always doth she drive her flock? For hours together I have seen her sit In dreamy musing 'neath the Druid tree, Which every happy creature shuns with awe. For 'tis not holy there; an evil spirit Hath since the fearful pagan days of old Beneath its branches fixed his dread abode. The oldest of our villagers relate Strange tales of horror of the Druid tree; Mysterious voices of unearthly sound From its unhallowed shade oft meet the ear. Myself, when in the gloomy twilight hour My path once chanced to lead me near this tree, Beheld a spectral figure sitting there, Which slowly from its long and ample robe Stretched forth its withered hand, and beckoned me. But on I went with speed, nor looked behind, And to the care of God consigned my soul.
RAIMOND (pointing to the image of the Virgin). Yon holy image of the Virgin blest, Whose presence heavenly peace diffuseth round, Not Satan's work, leadeth thy daughter here.
THIBAUT. No! not in vain hath it in fearful dreams And apparitions strange revealed itself. For three successive nights I have beheld Johanna sitting on the throne at Rheims, A sparkling diadem of seven stars Upon her brow, the sceptre in her hand, From which three lilies sprung, and I, her sire, With her two sisters, and the noble peers, The earls, archbishops, and the king himself, Bowed down before her. In my humble home How could this splendor enter my poor brain? Oh, 'tis the prelude to some fearful fall! This warning dream, in pictured show, reveals The vain and sinful longing of her heart. She looks with shame upon her lowly birth. Because with richer beauty God hath graced Her form, and dowered her with wondrous gifts Above the other maidens of this vale, She in her heart indulges sinful pride, And pride it is through which the angels fell, By which the fiend of hell seduces man.
RAIMOND. Who cherishes a purer, humbler mind Than doth thy pious daughter? Does she not With cheerful spirit work her sisters' will? She is more highly gifted far than they, Yet, like a servant maiden, it is she Who silently performs the humblest tasks. Beneath her guiding hands prosperity Attendeth still thy harvest and thy flocks; And around all she does there ceaseless flows A blessing, rare and unaccountable.
THIBAUT. Ah truly! Unaccountable indeed! Sad horror at this blessing seizes me! But now no more; henceforth I will be silent. Shall I accuse my own beloved child? I can do naught but warn and pray for her. Yet warn I must. Oh, shun the Druid tree! Stay not alone, and in the midnight hour Break not the ground for roots, no drinks prepare, No characters inscribe upon the sand! 'Tis easy to unlock the realm of spirits; Listening each sound, beneath a film of earth They lay in wait, ready to rush aloft. Stay not alone, for in the wilderness The prince of darkness tempted e'en the Lord.
Scene III
THIBAUT, RAIMOND, JOHANNA. BERTRAND enters, a helmet in his hand.
RAIMOND. Hush! here is Bertrand coming back from town; What bears he in his hand?
BERTRAND. You look at me With wondering gaze; no doubt you are surprised To see this martial helm!
THIBAUT. We are indeed! Come, tell us how you come by it? Why bring This fearful omen to our peaceful vale?
[JOHANNA, who has remained indifferent during the two previous scenes, becomes attentive, and steps nearer.
BERTRAND. I scarce can tell you how I came by it. I had procured some tools at Vaucouleurs; A crowd was gathered in the market-place, For fugitives were just arrived in haste From Orleans, bringing most disastrous news. In tumult all the town together flocked, And as I forced a passage through the crowds, A brown Bohemian woman, with this helm, Approached me, eyed me narrowly, and said: "Fellow, you seek a helm; I know it well. Take this one! For a trifle it is yours." "Go with it to the soldiers," I replied, "I am a husbandman, and want no helm." She would not cease, however, and went on: "None knoweth if he may not want a helm. A roof of metal for the Head just now Is of more value than a house of stone." Thus she pursued me closely through the streets, Still offering the helm, which I refused. I marked it well, and saw that it was bright, And fair and worthy of a knightly head; And when in doubt I weighed it in my hand, The strangeness of the incident revolving, The woman disappeared, for suddenly The rushing crowd had carried her away. And I was left the helmet in my hand.
JOHANNA (attempting eagerly to seize it). Give me the helmet!
BERTRAND. Why, what boots it you? It is not suited to a maiden's head.
JOHANNA (seizing it from him). Mine is the helmet--it belongs to me!
THIBAUT. What whim is this?
RAIMOND. Nay, let her have her way! This warlike ornament becomes her well, For in her bosom beats a manly heart. Remember how she once subdued the wolf, The savage monster which destroyed our herds, And filled the neighb'ring shepherds with dismay. She all alone--the lion-hearted maid Fought with the wolf, and from him snatched the lamb Which he was bearing in his bloody jaws. How brave soe'er the head this helm adorned, It cannot grace a worthier one than hers!
THIBAUT (to BERTRAND). Relate what new disasters have occurred. What tidings brought the fugitives?
BERTRAND. May God Have pity on our land, and save the king! In two great battles we have lost the day; Our foes are stationed in the heart of France, Far as the river Loire our lands are theirs-- Now their whole force they have combined, and lay Close siege to Orleans.
THIBAUT. God protect the king!
BERTRAND. Artillery is brought from every side, And as the dusky squadrons of the bees Swarm round the hive upon a summer day, As clouds of locusts from the sultry air Descend and shroud the country round for miles, So doth the cloud of war, o'er Orleans' fields, Pour forth its many-nationed multitudes, Whose varied speech, in wild confusion blent, With strange and hollow murmurs fill the air. For Burgundy, the mighty potentate, Conducts his motley host; the Hennegarians, The men of Liege and of Luxemburg, The people of Namur, and those who dwell In fair Brabant; the wealthy men of Ghent, Who boast their velvets, and their costly silks; The Zealanders, whose cleanly towns appear Emerging from the ocean; Hollanders Who milk the lowing herds; men from Utrecht, And even from West Friesland's distant realm, Who look towards the ice-pole--all combine, Beneath the banner of the powerful duke, Together to accomplish Orleans' fall.
THIBAUT. Oh, the unblest, the lamentable strife, Which turns the arms of France against itself!
BERTRAND. E'en she, the mother-queen, proud Isabel Bavaria's haughty princess--may be seen, Arrayed in armor, riding through the camp; With poisonous words of irony she fires The hostile troops to fury 'gainst her son, Whom she hath clasped to her maternal breast.
THIBAUT. A curse upon her, and may God prepare For her a death like haughty Jezebel's!
BERTRAND. The fearful Salisbury conducts the siege, The town-destroyer; with him Lionel, The brother of the lion; Talbot, too, Who, with his murd'rous weapon, moweth down The people in the battle: they have sworn, With ruthless insolence to doom to shame The hapless maidens, and to sacrifice All who the sword have wielded, with the sword. Four lofty watch-towers, to o'ertop the town, They have upreared; Earl Salisbury from on high Casteth abroad his cruel, murd'rous glance, And marks the rapid wanderers in the streets. Thousands of cannon-balls, of pond'rous weight, Are hurled into the city. Churches lie In ruined heaps, and Notre Dame's royal tower Begins at length to bow its lofty head. They also have formed powder-vaults below, And thus, above a subterranean hell, The timid city every hour expects, 'Midst crashing thunder, to break forth in flames.
[JOHANNA listens with close attention, and places the helmet on her head.
THIBAUT. But where were then our heroes? Where the swords Of Saintrailles, and La Hire, and brave Dunois, Of France the bulwark, that the haughty foe With such impetuous force thus onward rushed? Where is the king? Can he supinely see His kingdom's peril and his cities' fall?
BERTRAND. The king at Chinon holds his court; he lacks Soldiers to keep the field. Of what avail The leader's courage, and the hero's arm, When pallid fear doth paralyze the host? A sudden panic, as if sent from God, Unnerves the courage of the bravest men. In vain the summons of the king resounds As when the howling of the wolf is heard, The sheep in terror gather side by side, So Frenchmen, careless of their ancient fame, Seek only now the shelter of the towns. One knight alone, I have been told, has brought A feeble company, and joins the king With sixteen banners.
JOHANNA (quickly). What's the hero's name?
BERTRAND. 'Tis Baudricour. But much I fear the knight Will not be able to elude the foe, Who track him closely with too numerous hosts.
JOHANNA. Where halts the knight? Pray tell me, if you know.
BERTRAND. About a one day's march from Vaucouleurs.
THIBAUT (to JOHANNA). Why, what is that to thee? Thou dost inquire Concerning matters which become thee not.
BERTRAND. The foe being now so strong, and from the king No safety to be hoped, at Vaucouleurs They have with unanimity resolved To yield them to the Duke of Burgundy. Thus we avoid the foreign yoke, and still Continue by our ancient royal line; Ay, to the ancient crown we may fall back Should France and Burgundy be reconciled.
JOHANNA (as if inspired). Speak not of treaty! Speak not of surrender! The savior comes, he arms him for the fight. The fortunes of the foe before the walls Of Orleans shall be wrecked! His hour is come, He now is ready for the reaper's hand, And with her sickle will the maid appear, And mow to earth the harvest of his pride. She from the heavens will tear his glory down, Which he had hung aloft among the stars; Despair not! Fly not! for ere yonder corn Assumes its golden hue, or ere the moon Displays her perfect orb, no English horse Shall drink the rolling waters of the Loire.
BERTRAND. Alas! no miracle will happen now!
JOHANNA. Yes, there shall yet be one--a snow-white dove Shall fly, and with the eagle's boldness, tear The birds of prey which rend her fatherland. She shall o'erthrow this haughty Burgundy, Betrayer of the kingdom; Talbot, too, The hundred-handed, heaven-defying scourge; This Salisbury, who violates our fanes, And all these island robbers shall she drive Before her like a flock of timid lambs. The Lord will be with her, the God of battle; A weak and trembling creature he will choose, And through a tender maid proclaim his power, For he is the Almighty!
THIBAULT. What strange power Hath seized the maiden?
RAIMOND. Doubtless 'tis the helmet Which doth inspire her with such martial thoughts. Look at your daughter. Mark her flashing eye, Her glowing cheek, which kindles as with fire.
JOHANNA. This realm shall fall! This ancient land of fame, The fairest that, in his majestic course, The eternal sun surveys--this paradise, Which, as the apple of his eye, God loves-- Endure the fetters of a foreign yoke? Here were the heathen scattered, and the cross And holy image first were planted here; Here rest St. Louis' ashes, and from hence The troops went forth who set Jerusalem free.
BERTRAND (in astonishment). Hark how she speaks! Why, whence can she obtain This glorious revelation? Father Arc! A wondrous daughter God hath given you!
JOHANNA. We shall no longer serve a native prince! The king, who never dies, shall pass away-- The guardian of the sacred plough, who fills The earth with plenty, who protects our herds, Who frees the bondmen from captivity, Who gathers all his cities round his throne-- Who aids the helpless, and appals the base, Who envies no one, for he reigns supreme; Who is a mortal, yet an angel too, Dispensing mercy on the hostile earth. For the king's throne, which glitters o'er with gold, Affords a shelter for the destitute; Power and compassion meet together there, The guilty tremble, but the just draw near, And with the guardian lion fearless sport! The stranger king, who cometh from afar, Whose fathers' sacred ashes do not lie Interred among us; can he love our land? Who was not young among our youth, whose heart Respondeth not to our familiar words, Can he be as a father to our sons?
THIBAUT. God save the king and France! We're peaceful folk, Who neither wield the sword, nor rein the steed. --Let us await the king whom victory crowns; The fate of battle is the voice of God. He is our lord who crowns himself at Rheims, And on his head receives the holy oil. --Come, now to work! come! and let every one Think only of the duty of the hour! Let the earth's great ones for the earth contend, Untroubled we may view the desolation, For steadfast stand the acres which we till. The flames consume our villages, our corn Is trampled 'neath the tread of warlike steeds; With the new spring new harvests reappear, And our light huts are quickly reared again!
[They all retire except the maiden.
Scene IV
JOHANNA (alone).
Farewell ye mountains, ye beloved glades, Ye lone and peaceful valleys, fare ye well! Through you Johanna never more may stray! For, ay, Johanna bids you now farewell. Ye meads which I have watered, and ye trees Which I have planted, still in beauty bloom! Farewell ye grottos, and ye crystal springs! Sweet echo, vocal spirit of the vale. Who sang'st responsive to my simple strain, Johanna goes, and ne'er returns again.
Ye scenes where all my tranquil joys I knew, Forever now I leave you far behind! Poor foldless lambs, no shepherd now have you! O'er the wide heath stray henceforth unconfined! For I to danger's field, of crimson hue, Am summoned hence another flock to find. Such is to me the spirit's high behest; No earthly, vain ambition fires my breast.
For who in glory did on Horeb's height Descend to Moses in the bush of flame, And bade him go and stand in Pharaoh's sight-- Who once to Israel's pious shepherd came, And sent him forth, his champion in the fight,-- Who aye hath loved the lowly shepherd train,-- He, from these leafy boughs, thus spake to me, "Go forth! Thou shalt on earth my witness be.
"Thou in rude armor must thy limbs invest, A plate of steel upon thy bosom wear; Vain earthly love may never stir thy breast, Nor passion's sinful glow be kindled there. Ne'er with the bride-wreath shall thy locks be dressed, Nor on thy bosom bloom an infant fair; But war's triumphant glory shall be thine; Thy martial fame all women's shall outshine.
"For when in fight the stoutest hearts despair, When direful ruin threatens France, forlorn, Then thou aloft my oriflamme shalt bear, And swiftly as the reaper mows the corn, Thou shalt lay low the haughty conqueror; His fortune's wheel thou rapidly shalt turn, To Gaul's heroic sons deliverance bring, Relieve beleaguered Rheims, and crown thy king!"
The heavenly spirit promised me a sign; He sends the helmet, it hath come from him. Its iron filleth me with strength divine, I feel the courage of the cherubim; As with the rushing of a mighty wind It drives me forth to join the battles din; The clanging trumpets sound, the chargers rear, And the loud war-cry thunders in mine ear.
[She goes out.
Act I, Scene I
The royal residence at Chinon. DUNOIS and DUCHATEL.
DUNOIS. No longer I'll endure it. I renounce This recreant monarch who forsakes himself. My valiant heart doth bleed, and I could rain Hot tear-drops from mine eyes, that robber-swords Partition thus the royal realm of France; That cities, ancient as the monarchy, Deliver to the foe the rusty keys, While here in idle and inglorious ease We lose the precious season of redemption. Tidings of Orleans' peril reach mine ear, Hither I sped from distant Normandy, Thinking, arrayed in panoply of war, To find the monarch with his marshalled hosts; And find him--here! begirt with troubadours, And juggling knaves, engaged in solving riddles, And planning festivals in Sorel's honor, As brooded o'er the land profoundest peace! The Constable hath gone; he will not brook Longer the spectacle of shame. I, too, Depart, and leave him to his evil fate.
DUCHATEL. Here comes the king.
Act I, Scene II
KING CHARLES. The same.
CHARLES. The Constable hath sent us back his sword And doth renounce our service. Now, by heaven! He thus hath rid us of a churlish man, Who insolently sought to lord it o'er us.
DUNOIS. A man is precious in such perilous times; I would not deal thus lightly with his loss.
CHARLES. Thou speakest thus from love of opposition; While he was here thou never wert his friend.
DUNOIS. He was a tiresome, proud, vexatious fool, Who never could resolve. For once, however, He hath resolved. Betimes he goeth hence, Where honor can no longer be achieved.
CHARLES. Thou'rt in a pleasant humor; undisturbed I'll leave thee to enjoy it. Hark, Duchatel! Ambassadors are here from old King Rene, Of tuneful songs the master, far renowned. Let them as honored guests be entertained, And unto each present a chain of gold. [To the Bastard. Why smilest thou, Dunois?
DUNOIS. That from thy mouth Thou shakest golden chains.
DUCHATEL. Alas! my king! No gold existeth in thy treasury.
CHARLES. Then gold must be procured. It must not be That bards unhonored from our court depart. 'Tis they who make our barren sceptre bloom, 'Tis they who wreath around our fruitless crown Life's joyous branch of never-fading green. Reigning, they justly rank themselves as kings, Of gentle wishes they erect their throne, Their harmless realm existeth not in space; Hence should the bard accompany the king, Life's higher sphere the heritage of both!
DUCHATEL. My royal liege! I sought to spare thine ear So long as aid and counsel could be found; Now dire necessity doth loose my tongue. Naught hast thou now in presents to bestow, Thou hast not wherewithal to live to-morrow! The spring-tide of thy fortune is run out, And lowest ebb is in thy treasury! The soldiers, disappointed of their pay, With sullen murmurs, threaten to retire. My counsel faileth, not with royal splendor But meagerly, to furnish out thy household.
CHARLES. My royal customs pledge, and borrow gold From the Lombardians.
DUCHATEL. Sire, thy revenues, Thy royal customs are for three years pledged.
DUNOIS. And pledge meanwhile and kingdom both are lost.
CHARLES. Still many rich and beauteous lands are ours.
DUNOIS. So long as God and Talbot's sword permit! When Orleans falleth into English hands Then with King Rene thou may'st tend thy sheep!
CHARLES. Still at this king thou lov'st to point thy jest; Yet 'tis this lackland monarch who to-day Hath with a princely crown invested me.
DUNOIS. Not, in the name of heaven, with that of Naples, Which is for sale, I hear, since he kept sheep.
CHARLES. It is a sportive festival, a jest, Wherein he giveth to his fancy play, To found a world all innocent and pure In this barbaric, rude reality. Yet noble--ay, right royal is his aim! He will again restore the golden age, When gentle manners reigned, when faithful love The heroic hearts of valiant knights inspired, And noble women, whose accomplished taste Diffuseth grace around, in judgment sat. The old man dwelleth in those bygone times, And in our workday world would realize The dreams of ancient bards, who picture life 'Mid bowers celestial, throned on golden clouds. He hath established hence a court of love Where valiant knights may dwell, and homage yield To noble women, who are there enthroned, And where pure love and true may find a home. Me he hath chosen as the prince of love.
DUNOIS. I am not such a base, degenerate churl As love's dominion rudely to assail. I am her son, from her derive my name, And in her kingdom lies my heritage. The Prince of Orleans was my sire, and while No woman's heart was proof against his love, No hostile fortress could withstand his shock! Wilt thou, indeed, with honor name thyself The prince of love--be bravest of the brave! As I have read in those old chronicles, Love aye went coupled with heroic deeds, And valiant heroes, not inglorious shepherds, So legends tell us, graced King Arthur's board. The man whose valor is not beauty's shield Is all unworthy of her golden prize. Here the arena! combat for the crown, Thy royal heritage! With knightly sword Thy lady's honor and thy realm defend-- And hast thou with hot valor snatched the crown From streams of hostile blood,--then is the time, And it would well become thee as a prince, Love's myrtle chaplet round thy brows to wreathe.
CHARLES (to a PAGE, who enters). What is the matter?
PAGE. Senators from Orleans Entreat an audience, sire.
CHARLES. Conduct them hither! [PAGE retires. Doubtless they succor need; what can I do, Myself all-succorless!
Act I, Scene III
The same. Three SENATORS.
CHARLES. Welcome, my trusty citizens of Orleans! What tidings bring ye from my faithful town? Doth she continue with her wonted zeal Still bravely to withstand the leaguering foe?
SENATOR. Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme; And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour, Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed-- The foe at each assault advantage gains; Bare of defenders are the city walls, For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush, While few, alas! return to view their homes, And famine's scourge impendeth o'er the town. In this extremity the noble Count Of Rochepierre, commander of the town, Hath made a compact with the enemy, According to old custom, to yield up, On the twelfth day, the city to the foe, Unless, meanwhile, before the town appear A host of magnitude to raise the siege.
[DUNOIS manifests the strongest indignation.
CHARLES. The interval is brief.
SENATOR. We hither come, Attended by a hostile retinue, To implore thee, sire, to pity thy poor town, And to send succor ere the appointed day, When, if still unrelieved, she must surrender.
DUNOIS. And could Saintrailles consent to give his voice To such a shameful compact?
SENATOR. Never, sir! Long as the hero lived, none dared to breathe A single word of treaty or surrender.
DUNOIS. He then is dead?
SENATOR. The noble hero fell, His monarch's cause defending on our walls.
CHARLES. What! Saintrailles dead! Oh, in that single man A host is foundered!
[A Knight enters and speaks apart with DUNOIS, who starts with surprise.
DUNOIS. That too!
CHARLES. Well? What is it?
DUNOIS. Count Douglass sendeth here. The Scottish troops Revolt, and threaten to retire at once. Unless their full arrears are paid to-day.
CHARLES. Duchatel!
DUCHATEL (shrugs his shoulders). Sire! I know not what to counsel.
CHARLES. Pledge, promise all, even unto half my realm.
DUCHATEL. 'Tis vain! They have been fed with hope too often.
CHARLES. They are the finest troops of all my hosts! They must not now, not now abandon me!
SENATOR (throwing himself at the KING'S feet). Oh, king, assist us! Think of our distress!
CHARLES (in despair). How! Can I summon armies from the earth? Or grow a cornfield on my open palm? Rend me in pieces! Pluck my bleeding heart Forth from my breast, and coin it 'stead of gold! I've blood for you, but neither gold nor troops.
[He sees SOREL approach, and hastens towards her with outstretched arms.
Act I, Scene IV
The same. AGNES SOREL, a casket in her hand.
CHARLES. My Agnes! Oh, my love! My dearest life! Thou comest here to snatch me from despair! Refuge I take within thy loving arms! Possessing thee I feel that nothing is lost.
SOREL. My king, beloved! [looking round with an anxious, inquiring gaze. Dunois! Say, is it true, Duchatel?
DUCHATEL. 'Tis, alas!
SOREL. So great the need? No treasure left? The soldiers will disband?
DUCHATEL. Alas! It is too true!
SOREL (giving him the casket). Here-here is gold, Here too are jewels! Melt my silver down! Sell, pledge my castles--on my fair domains In Provence--treasure raise, turn all to gold, Appease the troops! No time to be lost!
[She urges him to depart.
CHARLES. Well now, Dunois! Duchatel! Do ye still Account me poor, when I possess the crown Of womankind? She's nobly born as I; The royal blood of Valois not more pure; The most exalted throne she would adorn-- Yet she rejects it with disdain, and claims No other title than to be my love. No gift more costly will she e'er receive Than early flower in winter, or rare fruit! No sacrifice on my part she permits, Yet sacrificeth all she had to me! With generous spirit she doth venture all Her wealth and fortune in my sinking bark.
DUNOIS. Ay, she is mad indeed, my king, as thou; She throws her all into a burning house, And draweth water in the leaky vessel Of the Danaides. Thee she will not save, And in thy ruin but involve herself.
SOREL. Believe him not! Full many a time he hath Perilled his life for thee, and now, forsooth, Chafeth because I risk my worthless gold! How? Have I freely sacrificed to thee What is esteemed far more than gold and pearls, And shall I now hold back the gifts of fortune? Oh, come! Let my example challenge thee To noble self-denial! Let's at once Cast off the needless ornaments of life! Thy courtiers metamorphose into soldiers; Thy gold transmute to iron; all thou hast, With resolute daring, venture for thy crown! Peril and want we will participate! Let us bestride the war-horse, and expose Our tender person to the fiery glow Of the hot sun, take for our canopy The clouds above, and make the stones our pillow. The rudest warrior, when he sees his king Bear hardship and privation like the meanest Will patiently endure his own hard lot!
CHARLES (laughing). Ay! now is realized an ancient word Of prophesy, once uttered by a nun Of Clairmont, in prophetic mood, who said, That through a woman's aid I o'er my foes Should triumph, and achieve my father's crown. Far off I sought her in the English camp; I strove to reconcile a mother's heart; Here stands the heroine--my guide to Rheims! My Agnes! I shall triumph through thy love!
SOREL. Thou'lt triumph through the valiant swords of friends.
CHARLES. And from my foes' dissensions much I hope For sure intelligence hath reached mine ear, That 'twixt these English lords and Burgundy Things do not stand precisely as they did; Hence to the duke I have despatched La Hire, To try if he can lead my angry vassal Back to his ancient loyalty and faith: Each moment now I look for his return.
DUCHATEL (at the window). A knight e'en now dismounteth in the court.
CHARLES. A welcome messenger! We soon shall learn Whether we're doomed to conquer or to yield.
Act I, Scene V
The same. LA HIRE.
CHARLES (meeting him). Hope bringest thou, or not? Be brief, La Hire, Out with thy tidings! What must we expect?
LA HIRE. Expect naught, sire, save from thine own good sword.
CHARLES. The haughty duke will not be reconciled! Speak! How did he receive my embassy?
LA HIRE. His first and unconditional demand, Ere he consent to listen to thine errand, Is that Duchatel be delivered up, Whom he doth name the murderer of his sire.
CHARLES. This base condition we reject with scorn!
LA HIRE. Then be the league dissolved ere it commence!
CHARLES. Hast thou thereon, as I commanded thee, Challenged the duke to meet him in fair fight On Montereau's bridge, whereon his father fell?
LA HIRE. Before him on the ground I flung thy glove, And said: "Thou wouldst forget thy majesty, And like a knight do battle for thy realm." He scornfully rejoined "He needed not To fight for that which he possessed already, But if thou wert so eager for the fray, Before the walls of Orleans thou wouldst find him, Whither he purposed going on the morrow;" Thereon he laughing turned his back upon me.
CHARLES. Say, did not justice raise her sacred voice, Within the precincts of my parliament?
LA HIRE. The rage of party, sire, hath silenced her. An edict of the parliament declares Thee and thy race excluded from the throne.
DUNOIS. These upstart burghers' haughty insolence!
CHARLES. Hast thou attempted with my mother aught?
LA HIRE. With her?
CHARLES. Ay! How did she demean herself?
LA HIRE (after a few moments' reflection). I chanced to step within St. Denis' walls Precisely at the royal coronation. The crowds were dressed as for a festival; Triumphal arches rose in every street Through which the English monarch was to pass. The way was strewed with flowers, and with huzzas, As France some brilliant conquest had achieved, The people thronged around the royal car.
SOREL. They could huzza--huzza, while trampling thus Upon a gracious sovereign's loving heart!
LA HIRE. I saw young Harry Lancaster--the boy-- On good St. Lewis' regal chair enthroned; On either side his haughty uncles stood, Bedford and Gloucester, and before him kneeled, To render homage for his lands, Duke Philip.
CHARLES. Oh, peer dishonored! Oh, unworthy cousin!
LA HIRE. The child was timid, and his footing lost As up the steps he mounted towards the throne. An evil omen! murmured forth the crowd, And scornful laughter burst on every side. Then forward stepped Queen Isabel--thy mother, And--but it angers me to utter it!
CHARLES. Say on.
LA HIRE. Within her arms she clasped the boy, And herself placed him on thy father's throne.
CHARLES. Oh, mother! mother!
LA HIRE. E'en the murderous bands Of the Burgundians, at this spectacle, Evinced some tokens of indignant shame. The queen perceived it, and addressed the crowds, Exclaiming with loud voice: "Be grateful, Frenchmen, That I engraft upon a sickly stock A healthy scion, and redeem you from The misbegotten son of a mad sire!"
[The KING hides his face; AGNES hastens towards him and clasps him in her arms; all the bystanders express aversion and horror.
DUNOIS. She-wolf of France! Rage-breathing Megara!
CHARLES (after a pause, to the SENATORS). Yourselves have heard the posture of affairs. Delay no longer, back return to Orleans, And bear this message to my faithful town; I do absolve my subjects from their oath, Their own best interests let them now consult, And yield them to the Duke of Burgundy; 'Yclept the Good, he need must prove humane.
DUNOIS. What say'st thou, sire? Thou wilt abandon Orleans!
SENATOR (kneels down). My king! Abandon not thy faithful town! Consign her not to England's harsh control. She is a precious jewel in the crown, And none hath more inviolate faith maintained Towards the kings, thy royal ancestors.
DUNOIS. Have we been routed? Is it lawful, sire, To leave the English masters of the field, Without a single stroke to save the town? And thinkest thou, with careless breath, forsooth, Ere blood hath flowed, rashly to give away The fairest city from the heart of France?
CHARLES. Blood hath been poured forth freely, and in vain The hand of heaven is visibly against me; In every battle is my host o'erthrown, I am rejected of my parliament, My capital, my people, hail me foe, Those of my blood,--my nearest relatives,-- Forsake me and betray--and my own mother Doth nurture at her breast the hostile brood. Beyond the Loire we will retire, and yield To the o'ermastering hand of destiny Which sideth with the English.
SOREL. God forbid That we in weak despair should quit this realm! This utterance came not from thy heart, my king, Thy noble heart, which hath been sorely riven By the fell deed of thy unnatural mother, Thou'lt be thyself again, right valiantly Thou'lt battle with thine adverse destiny, Which doth oppose thee with relentless ire.
CHARLES (lost in gloomy thought). Is it not true? A dark and ominous doom Impendeth o'er the heaven-abandoned house Of Valois--there preside the avenging powers, To whom a mother's crime unbarred the way. For thirty years my sire in madness raved; Already have three elder brothers been Mowed down by death; 'tis the decree of heaven, The house of the Sixth Charles is doomed to fall.
SOREL. In thee 'twill rise with renovated life! Oh, in thyself have faith!--believe me, king, Not vainly hath a gracious destiny Redeemed thee from the ruin of thy house, And by thy brethren's death exalted thee, The youngest born, to an unlooked-for throne Heaven in thy gentle spirit hath prepared The leech to remedy the thousand ills By party rage inflicted on the land. The flames of civil discord thou wilt quench, And my heart tells me thou'lt establish peace, And found anew the monarchy of France.
CHARLES. Not I! The rude and storm-vexed times require A pilot formed by nature to command. A peaceful nation I could render happy A wild, rebellious people not subdue. I never with the sword could open hearts Against me closed in hatred's cold reserve.
SOREL. The people's eye is dimmed, an error blinds them, But this delusion will not long endure; The day is not far distant when the love Deep rooted in the bosom of the French, Towards their native monarch, will revive, Together with the ancient jealousy, Which forms a barrier 'twixt the hostile nations. The haughty foe precipitates his doom. Hence, with rash haste abandon not the field, With dauntless front contest each foot of ground, As thine own heart defend the town of Orleans! Let every boat be sunk beneath the wave, Each bridge be burned, sooner than carry thee Across the Loire, the boundary of thy realm, The Stygian flood, o'er which there's no return.
CHARLES. What could be done I have done. I have offered, In single fight, to combat for the crown. I was refused. In vain my people bleed, In vain my towns are levelled with the dust. Shall I, like that unnatural mother, see My child in pieces severed with the sword? No; I forego my claim, that it may live.
DUNOIS. How, sire! Is this fit language for a king? Is a crown thus renounced? Thy meanest subject, For his opinion's sake, his hate and love, Sets property and life upon a cast; When civil war hangs out her bloody flag, Each private end is drowned in party zeal. The husbandman forsakes his plough, the wife Neglects her distaff; children, and old men, Don the rude garb of war; the citizen Consigns his town to the devouring flames, The peasant burns the produce of his fields; And all to injure or advantage thee, And to achieve the purpose of his heart. Men show no mercy, and they wish for none, When they at honor's call maintain the fight, Or for their idols or their gods contend. A truce to such effeminate pity, then, Which is not suited to a monarch's breast. Thou didst not heedlessly provoke the war; As it commenced, so let it spend its fury. It is the law of destiny that nations Should for their monarchs immolate themselves. We Frenchmen recognize this sacred law, Nor would annul it. Base, indeed, the nation That for its honor ventures not its all.
CHARLES (to the SENATORS). You've heard my last resolve; expect no other. May God protect you! I can do no more.
DUNOIS. As thou dost turn thy back upon thy realm, So may the God of battle aye avert His visage from thee. Thou forsak'st thyself, So I forsake thee. Not the power combined Of England and rebellious Burgundy, Thy own mean spirit hurls thee from the throne. Born heroes ever were the kings of France; Thou wert a craven, even from thy birth. [To the SENATORS. The king abandons you. But I will throw Myself into your town--my father's town-- And 'neath its ruins find a soldier's grave.
[He is about to depart. AGNES SOREL detains him.
SOREL (to the KING). Oh, let him not depart in anger from thee! Harsh words his lips have uttered, but his heart Is true as gold. 'Tis he, himself, my king, Who loves thee, and hath often bled for thee. Dunois, confess, the heat of noble wrath Made thee forget thyself; and oh, do thou Forgive a faithful friend's o'erhasty speech! Come, let me quickly reconcile your hearts, Ere anger bursteth forth in quenchless flame.
[DUNOIS looks fixedly at the KING, and appears to await an answer.
CHARLES. Our way lies over the Loire. Duchatel, See all our equipage embarked.
DUNOIS (quickly to SOREL). Farewell.
[He turns quickly round, and goes out. The SENATORS follow.
SOREL (wringing her hands in despair). Oh, if he goes, we are forsaken quite! Follow, La Hire! Oh, seek to soften him!
[LA HIRE goes out.
Act I, Scene VI
CHARLES, SOREL, DUCHATEL.
CHARLES. Is, then, the sceptre such a peerless treasure? Is it so hard to loose it from our grasp? Believe me, 'tis more galling to endure The domineering rule of these proud vassals. To be dependent on their will and pleasure Is, to a noble heart, more bitter far Than to submit to fate. [To DUCHATEL, who still lingers. Duchatel, go, And do what I commanded.
DUCHATEL (throws himself at the KING'S feet). Oh, my king!
CHARLES. No more! Thou'st heard my absolute resolve!
DUCHATEL. Sire, with the Duke of Burgundy make peace! 'Tis the sole outlet from destruction left!
CHARLES. Thou giv'st this counsel, and thy blood alone Can ratify this peace.
DUCHATEL. Here is my head. I oft have risked it for thee in the fight, And with a joyful spirit I, for thee, Would lay it down upon the block of death. Conciliate the duke! Deliver me To the full measure of his wrath, and let My flowing blood appease the ancient hate.
CHARLES (looks at him for some time in silence, and with deep emotion). Can it be true? Am I, then, sunk so low, That even friends, who read my inmost heart, Point out for my escape the path of shame? Yes, now I recognize my abject fall. My honor is no more confided in.
DUCHATEL. Reflect----
CHARLES. Be silent, and incense me not! Had I ten realms, on which to turn my back, With my friend's life I would not purchase them. Do what I have commanded. Hence, and see My equipage embarked.
DUCHATEL. 'Twill speedily Be done.
[He stands up and retires. AGNES SOREL weeps passionately.
Act I, Scene VII
The royal palace at Chinon. CHARLES, AGNES SOREL.
CHARLES (seizing the hand of AGNES). My Agnes, be not sorrowful! Beyond the Loire we still shall find a France; We are departing to a happier land, Where laughs a milder, an unclouded sky, And gales more genial blow; we there shall meet More gentle manners; song abideth there, And love and life in richer beauty bloom.
SOREL. Oh, must I contemplate this day of woe! The king must roam in banishment! the son Depart, an exile from his father's house, And turn his back upon his childhood's home! Oh, pleasant, happy land that we forsake, Ne'er shall we tread thee joyously again.
Act I, Scene VIII
LA HIRE returns, CHARLES, SOREL.
SOREL. You come alone? You do not bring him back? [Observing him more closely. La Hire! What news? What does that look announce? Some new calamity?
LA HIRE. Calamity Hath spent itself; sunshine is now returned.
SOREL. What is it? I implore you.
LA HIRE (to the KING). Summon back The delegates from Orleans.
CHARLES. Why? What is it?
LA HIRE. Summon them back! Thy fortune is reversed. A battle has been fought, and thou hast conquered.
SOREL. Conquered! Oh, heavenly music of that word!
CHARLES. La Hire! A fabulous report deceives thee; Conquered! In conquest I believe no more.
LA HIRE. Still greater wonders thou wilt soon believe. Here cometh the archbishop. To thine arms He leadeth back Dunois.
SOREL. O beauteous flower Of victory, which doth the heavenly fruits Of peace and reconcilement bear at once!
Act I, Scene IX
The same, ARCHBISHOP of RHEIMS, DUNOIS, DUCHATEL, with RAOUL, a Knight in armor.
ARCHBISHOP (leading DUNOIS to the KING, and joining their hands). Princes, embrace! Let rage and discord cease, Since Heaven itself hath for our cause declared.
[DUNOIS embraces the KING.
CHARLES. Relieve my wonder and perplexity. What may this solemn earnestness portend? Whence this unlooked-for change of fortune?
ARCHBISHOP (leads the KNIGHT forward, and presents him to the KING). Speak!
RAOUL. We had assembled sixteen regiments Of Lotharingian troops to join your host; And Baudricourt, a knight of Vaucouleurs, Was our commander. Having gained the heights By Vermanton, we wound our downward way Into the valley watered by the Yonne. There, in the plain before us, lay the foe, And when we turned, arms glittered in our rear. We saw ourselves surrounded by two hosts, And could not hope for conquest or for flight. Then sank the bravest heart, and in despair We all prepared to lay our weapons down. The leaders with each other anxiously Sought counsel and found none; when to our eyes A spectacle of wonder showed itself. For suddenly from forth the thickets' depths A maiden, on her head a polished helm, Like a war-goddess, issued; terrible Yet lovely was her aspect, and her hair In dusky ringlets round her shoulders fell. A heavenly radiance shone around the height; When she upraised her voice and thus addressed us: "Why be dismayed, brave Frenchmen? On the foe! Were they more numerous than the ocean sands, God and the holy maiden lead you on"! Then quickly from the standard-bearer's hand She snatched the banner, and before our troop With valiant bearing strode the wondrous maid. Silent with awe, scarce knowing what we did, The banner and the maiden we pursue, And fired with ardor, rush upon the foe, Who, much amazed, stand motionless and view The miracle with fixed and wondering gaze. Then, as if seized by terror sent from God, They suddenly betake themselves to flight, And casting arms and armor to the ground, Disperse in wild disorder o'er the field. No leader's call, no signal now avails; Senseless from terror, without looking back, Horses and men plunge headlong in the stream, Where they without resistance are despatched. It was a slaughter rather than a fight! Two thousand of the foe bestrewed the field, Not reckoning numbers swallowed by the flood, While of our company not one was slain.
CHARLES. 'Tis strange, by heaven! most wonderful and strange!
SOREL. A maiden worked this miracle, you say? Whence did she come? Who is she?
RAOUL. Who she is She will reveal to no one but the king! She calls herself a seer and prophetess Ordained by God, and promises to raise The siege of Orleans ere the moon shall change. The people credit her, and thirst for war. The host she follows--she'll be here anon.
[The ringing of bells is heard, together with the clang of arms.
Hark to the din! The pealing of the bells! 'Tis she! The people greet God's messenger.
CHARLES (to DUCHATEL). Conduct her thither. [To the ARCHBISHOP. What should I believe? A maiden brings me conquest even now, When naught can save me but a hand divine! This is not in the common course of things. And dare I here believe a miracle?
MANY VOICES (behind the scene). Hail to the maiden!--the deliverer!
CHARLES. She comes! Dunois, now occupy my place! We will make trial of this wondrous maid. Is she indeed inspired and sent by God She will be able to discern the king.
[DUNOIS seats himself; the KING stands at his right hand, AGNES SOREL near him; the ARCHBISHOP and the others opposite; so that the intermediate space remains vacant.
Act I, Scene X
The same. JOHANNA, accompanied by the councillors and many knights, who occupy the background of the scene; she advances with noble bearing, and slowly surveys the company.
DUNOIS (after a long and solemn pause). Art thou the wondrous maiden----
JOHANNA (interrupts him, regarding him with dignity). Bastard of Orleans, thou wilt tempt thy God! This place abandon, which becomes thee not! To this more mighty one the maid is sent.
[With a firm step she approaches the KING, bows one knee before him, and, rising immediately, steps back. All present express their astonishment, DUNOIS forsakes his seat, which is occupied by the KING.
CHARLES. Maiden, thou ne'er hast seen my face before. Whence hast thou then this knowledge?
JOHANNA. Thee I saw When none beside, save God in heaven, beheld thee.
[She approaches the KING, and speaks mysteriously.
Bethink thee, Dauphin, in the bygone night, When all around lay buried in deep sleep, Thou from thy couch didst rise and offer up An earnest prayer to God. Let these retire And I will name the subject of thy prayer.
CHARLES. What! to Heaven confided need not be From men concealed. Disclose to me my prayer, And I shall doubt no more that God inspires thee.
JOHANNA. Three prayers thou offeredst, Dauphin; listen now Whether I name them to thee! Thou didst pray That if there were appended to this crown Unjust possession, or if heavy guilt, Not yet atoned for, from thy father's times, Occasioned this most lamentable war, God would accept thee as a sacrifice, Have mercy on thy people, and pour forth Upon thy head the chalice of his wrath.
CHARLES (steps back with awe). Who art thou, mighty one? Whence comest thou?
[All express their astonishment.
JOHANNA. To God thou offeredst this second prayer: That if it were his will and high decree To take away the sceptre from thy race, And from thee to withdraw whate'er thy sires, The monarchs of this kingdom, once possessed, He in his mercy would preserve to thee Three priceless treasures--a contented heart, Thy friend's affection, and thine Agnes' love.
[The KING conceals his face: the spectators express their astonishment. After a pause.
Thy third petition shall I name to thee?
CHARLES. Enough; I credit thee! This doth surpass Mere human knowledge: thou art sent by God!
ARCHBISHOP. Who art thou, wonderful and holy maid? What favored region bore thee? What blest pair, Beloved of Heaven, may claim thee as their child?
JOHANNA. Most reverend father, I am named Johanna, I am a shepherd's lowly daughter, born In Dom Remi, a village of my king. Included in the diocese of Toul, And from a child I kept my father's sheep. And much and frequently I heard them tell Of the strange islanders, who o'er the sea Had come to make us slaves, and on us force A foreign lord, who loveth not the people; How the great city, Paris, they had seized, And had usurped dominion o'er the realm. Then earnestly God's Mother I implored To save us from the shame of foreign chains, And to preserve to us our lawful king. Not distant from my native village stands An ancient image of the Virgin blest, To which the pious pilgrims oft repaired; Hard by a holy oak, of blessed power, Standeth, far-famed through wonders manifold. Beneath the oak's broad shade I loved to sit Tending my flock--my heart still drew me there. And if by chance among the desert hills A lambkin strayed, 'twas shown me in a dream, When in the shadow of this oak I slept. And once, when through the night beneath this tree In pious adoration I had sat, Resisting sleep, the Holy One appeared, Bearing a sword and banner, otherwise Clad like a shepherdess, and thus she spake: "'Tis I; arise, Johanna! leave thy flock, The Lord appoints thee to another task! Receive this banner! Gird thee with this sword! Therewith exterminate my people's foes; Conduct to Rheims thy royal master's son, And crown him with the kingly diadem!" And I made answer: "How may I presume To undertake such deeds, a tender maid, Unpractised in the dreadful art of war!" And she replied: "A maiden pure and chaste Achieves whate'er on earth is glorious If she to earthly love ne'er yields her heart. Look upon me! a virgin, like thyself; I to the Christ, the Lord divine, gave birth, And am myself divine!" Mine eyelids then She touched, and when I upward turned my amaze, Heaven's wide expanse was filled with angel-boys, Who bore white lilies in their hands, while tones Of sweetest music floated through the air. And thus on three successive nights appeared The Holy One, and cried,--"Arise, Johanna! The Lord appoints thee to another task!" And when the third night she revealed herself, Wrathful she seemed, and chiding spake these words: "Obedience, woman's duty here on earth; Severe endurance is her heavy doom; She must be purified through discipline; Who serveth here, is glorified above!" While thus she spake, she let her shepherd garb Fail from her, and as Queen of Heaven stood forth Enshrined in radiant light, while golden clouds Upbore her slowly to the realms of bliss.
[All are moved; AGNES SOREL weeping, hides her face on the bosom of the KING.
ARCHBISHOP (after a long pause). Before divine credentials such as these Each doubt of earthly prudence must subside, Her deeds attest the truth of what she speaks, For God alone such wonders can achieve.
DUNOIS. I credit not her wonders, but her eyes Which beam with innocence and purity.
CHARLES. Am I, a sinner, worthy of such favor? Infallible, All-searching eye, thou seest Mine inmost heart, my deep humility!
JOHANNA. Humility shines brightly in the skies; Thou art abased, hence God exalteth thee.
CHARLES. Shall I indeed withstand mine enemies?
JOHANNA. France I will lay submissive at thy feet!
CHARLES. And Orleans, say'st thou, will not be surrendered?
JOHANNA. The Loire shall sooner roll its waters back.
CHARLES. Shall I in triumph enter into Rheims?
JOHANNA. I through ten thousand foes will lead you there.
[The knights make a noise with their lances and shields, and evince signs of courage.
DUNOIS. Appoint the maiden to command the host! We follow blindly whereso'er she leads! The Holy One's prophetic eye shall guide, And this brave sword from danger shall protect her!
LA HIRE. A universe in arms we will not fear, If she, the mighty one, precede our troops. The God of battle walketh by her side; Let her conduct us on to victory!
[The knights clang their arms and step forward.
CHARLES. Yes, holy maiden, do thou lead mine host; My chiefs and warriors shall submit to thee. This sword of matchless temper, proved in war, Sent back in anger by the Constable, Hath found a hand more worthy. Prophetess, Do thou receive it, and henceforward be----
JOHANNA. No, noble Dauphin! conquest to my liege Is not accorded through this instrument Of earthly might. I know another sword Wherewith I am to conquer, which to thee, I, as the Spirit taught, will indicate; Let it be hither brought.
CHARLES. Name it, Johanna.
JOHANNA. Send to the ancient town of Fierbois; There in Saint Catherine's churchyard is a vault Where lie in heaps the spoils of bygone war. Among them is the sword which I must use. It by three golden lilies may be known, Upon the blade impressed. Let it be brought For thou, my liege, shalt conquer through this sword.
CHARLES. Perform what she commands.
JOHANNA. And a white banner, Edged with a purple border, let me bear. Upon this banner let the Queen of Heaven Be pictured with the beauteous Jesus child Floating in glory o'er this earthly ball. For so the Holy Mother showed it me.
CHARLES. So be it as thou sayest.
JOHANNA (to the ARCHBISHOP). Reverend bishop; Lay on my head thy consecrated hands! Pronounce a blessing, Father, on thy child!
[She kneels down.
ARCHBISHOP. Not blessings to receive, but to dispense Art thou appointed. Go, with power divine! But we are sinners all and most unworthy.
[She rises: a PAGE enters.
PAGE. A herald from the English generals.
JOHANNA. Let him appear, for he is sent by God!
[The KING motions to the PAGE, who retires.
Act I, Scene XI
The HERALD. The same.
CHARLES. Thy tidings, herald? What thy message! Speak!
HERALD. Who is it, who for Charles of Valois, The Count of Pointhieu, in this presence speaks?
DUNOIS. Unworthy herald! base, insulting knave! Dost thou presume the monarch of the French Thus in his own dominions to deny? Thou art protected by thine office, else----
HERALD. One king alone is recognized by France, And he resideth in the English camp.
CHARLES. Peace, peace, good cousin! Speak thy message, herald!
HERALD. My noble general laments the blood Which hath already flowed, and still must flow. Hence, in the scabbard holding back the sword, Before by storm the town of Orleans falls, He offers thee an amicable treaty.
CHARLES. Proceed!
JOHANNA (stepping forward). Permit me, Dauphin, in thy stead, To parley with this herald.
CHARLES. Do so, maid! Determine thou, for peace, or bloody war.
JOHANNA (to the HERALD). Who sendeth thee? Who speaketh through thy mouth?
HERALD. The Earl of Salisbury; the British chief.
JOHANNA. Herald, 'tis false! The earl speaks not through thee. Only the living speak, the dead are silent.
HERALD. The earl is well, and full of lusty strength; He lives to bring down ruin on your heads.
JOHANNA. When thou didst quit the British army he lived. This morn, while gazing from Le Tournelle's tower, A ball from Orleans struck him to the ground. Smilest thou that I discern what is remote? Not to my words give credence; but believe The witness of thine eyes! his funeral train Thou shalt encounter as you goest hence! Now, herald, speak, and do thine errand here.
HERALD. If what is hidden thou canst thus reveal, Thou knowest mine errand ere I tell it thee.
JOHANNA. It boots me not to know it. But do thou Give ear unto my words! This message bear In answer to the lords who sent thee here. Monarch of England, and ye haughty dukes, Bedford and Gloucester, regents of this realm! To heaven's high King you are accountable For all the blood that hath been shed. Restore The keys of all the cities ta'en by force In opposition to God's holy law! The maiden cometh from the King of Heaven And offers you or peace or bloody war. Choose ye! for this I say, that you may know it: To you this beauteous realm is not assigned By Mary's son;--but God hath given it To Charles, my lord and Dauphin, who ere long Will enter Paris with a monarch's pomp, Attended by the great ones of his realm. Now, herald, go, and speedily depart, For ere thou canst attain the British camp And do thine errand, is the maiden there, To plant the sign of victory at Orleans.
[She retires. In the midst of a general movement, the curtain falls.
Act II
Landscape, bounded by rocks.