Charles. Louvel. Bertha.

Cha. We need no supplication from a friend:
Thine own desire to pluck her from such fate
Is not more strong than ours. But what devise?

Lou. In truth, your grace, I know not what to urge.

Ber. Thou wilt not leave her! Make not one attempt!

Lou. Pardon, my liege, the vehemence of grief:
Terror will oft, unconscious of offence,
Start forth before respect.

Ber. Oh! forgive me.

Cha. Shame on the heart that needs excuse for words
Drawn forth by sudden anguish. Banish fear.
If aught within our power can rescue her,
No matter what the cost, she shall be freed!
Ourself will write to Bedford.

Lou. But in vain.

Cha. That shall be proved. The offer we will make,
E'en policy like his may scorn the slighting.
Retire;—rely upon thy monarch's word:—
Doth this not comfort thee?

Ber. Alas! the hope
Such promise brings burns bright, but quickly dies!

Cha. And is our honour doubted?

Ber. No, my liege,
The fault lies here. I would, but cannot smile,
Yet bless thee for the hope which finds no home.

[Exit.

Cha. Prepare a faithful messenger, and charge
He give the packet into Bedford's hands.
Lose not a moment—this concerns us much.
If by her loss or death our crown we buy,
Would that our brow had never felt its pressure.

[Exit.

Lou. No; never here must she return. My own
Disgrace or death would be the consequence.
I dread her growing influence with the king,
The evil will of disappointed minds,
Who now exult in her captivity.
Yet hath she borne the glory she has won
With such humility—so well hath won it.
So little love of self hath ever shown;
And with such noble heart distinctions waved,
Which others would have sold a soul to purchase.
No matter—when Ambition wakes, then Justice
And Pity too must sleep. No packet leaves
These walls, nor intercessions reach thee.

---

Scene II.—An Apartment in the Keep at Rouen.

Bedford. Beauvais.

Beau. But good, my lord, the interest of the state—
Justice demands.

Bed. I question not the policy—
No, nor justice of the step: be it so;
It is enough for me, my word is pledged.

Beau. But pledged to whom? a guilty, low-born woman.

Bed. Whether to monarch or to slave, all one,
'Tis pledged, and I'll not break it. Honour fled
From common breasts, must shelter in the noblest.

Beau. (Aside. Proud, haughty prince!) Why generous by halves?
Why not then grant her all,—ease, liberty,
With means again to lord it over those
Whose path 'tis outrage she should dare to cross?
Richemont hath offered well, and reasoned wisely.

Bed. And wouldst thou move me to a coward's deed
To soothe his wounded vanity? Shame on 't!
Talk of ambition, love of fame, revenge,
Aye, e'en of avarice, and call them selfish,
Prodigal of life, cruel; why vanity,
That vice of little minds, out-tops them all!
Cold, selfish, marble-hearted vanity!
Whose god is self, whose greedy appetite,
Fed still on self, is gorged but never full.
Never again shall she behold the light
Of sun. I promised life on one condition—
That she be never clad in armour more.
That condition honoured—she shall live.

Beau. Broken?

Bed. She shall die.

[Exit.

Beau. Then hast thou sealed her doom. Richemont
I thank thee for the hint.

---

Scene III.—An Apartment in the same.—Two Soldiers bearing Armour.

First Sol. What does it mean?

Second Sol. What mean!—that she must die,
And some new charge too must be found against her,
Let her but wear this once again, and—

First Sol. Folly!
How's this to tempt her?

Second Sol. How! Do we not hang
The captive linnet who denies to sing,
In sight of his own fields and native woods,
To cheat him into song?

First Sol. A cursed deed
Is this, and 'tis the curse of villany
To be a villain's tool—an honest man
Had ne'er received such charge.

Second Sol. Fool—lay it down.
See what dents are in this breastplate!—observe
How bloody 'tis within: a foul wound.—

First Sol. Peace!
A choking's in my throat, a swelling here
I might mistake for pity, if, damned thought,
Pity and I had not too long been strangers.
The prey comes!—See, the tiger's to his lair!

Enter Beauvais.

Beau. Begone. (Exit Sol.) She hath withstood all former trials.
All fails to move her. Weary hours I've passed
Within her dungeon, urging all arguments,
Painting all horrors, sundry deaths to fright her.
Confession she denies—all ghostly aid,
(Sold though to hell,) and all reproof rejects.
Baffled as yet in each attempt to snare her,
This shall succeed, or be she fiend or woman.

Enter Joan.

[Beauvais conceals himself.
Joan. What may this mean? Hath pity touched their breast?
Why has the dungeon's gloom been changed for light
That cheers, for air that wakens life, not chills?
Oh, beauteous light! oh, sweet and balmy breeze!
Thy Maker's smile, thy Maker's breath art thou,
And I am in His presence. Tears! the dungeon
Scarce forced one drop, one sigh of sorrow;
But now for very happiness I weep.
Surely I never felt till now the luxury
That conscious being can confer. Oh, death!
I've looked upon thee till thy form's familiar;
E'en till thy ugliness had almost vanished,
So well hath darkness and thyself agreed;
But now this gentle gale, these sunny beams,
This perfumed scent of flowers do tell a tale
Of home—of loved companions, and I sigh
To be, as I was once, a joyous child;
Although I would not live my life again
For all that sight or smell or hope could offer.
And, hark! the sound of trumpet clanging shrill—
I hear the tramp of martial feet—of horse!
My spirit bursts these walls! My country's voice
Is echoed in that swell, and my full heart
Heaves with tumultuous force to answer her.
Hours of past glory, are ye gone for ever?
Crowd ye upon my mind alone to torture me,
Or are ye pledge of wonders yet to come?
Ha!—armour here!—would that—it is my own!
Welcome, thrice welcome!—But how dimmed its brightness!
[Beauvais advances.
And the vile spider's cast her web across it.
Off, off, and let me wipe this rust away.
I gaze, and the whole field is now before me—
Proud steeds and gallant forms, war's panoply!
Oh! happy hours, when thus I clasped thee on me—
Thus kneeling, prayed for thee, my king, my country,
Thus rising bade—defiance to the foe!

Beau. Offspring of hell, accursed, shame of thy sex!
Incorrigible wretch! Guards, to the council,
Thus arrayed, conduct her. Hence!

Joan. Oh! hear me!

Beau. Not if thou wert to plead.

Joan. I plead for nought.
Think not, howe'er, I cannot now decipher
What thy malice had suggested. I see it;
See it and pity thee.

---

Scene IV.

Council. Bedford. Beauvais, &c. &c. Joan.

Bed. Advance!
Thou knowest the conditions upon which
Thy life was spared—thou hast presumed to break them—
Thine are the consequences. Found in arms,
A rebel's doom deferred now justly waits thee.

Joan. That I have erred, I own with deepest sorrow;
But 'twas through weakness: with like justice might
The poor, fond bird, unwitting of deceit,
Be blamed because it fell into the snare
The cunning fowler laid for its destruction.
It was a cruel deed—but let it pass:
Not so thy charge of rebel—I repel it.
Here silence would be guilty fear—not innocence.
Who rears his country's standard 'gainst the foe—
'Gainst the usurper, claims a nobler epithet.
The God of heaven approves the patriot's aim,
And sanctifies the deed. Not mine, not mine
The traitor's guilt, the traitor's doom: I die,
As I have wish'd to die,—in proof, in seal
Of my fidelity.

Beau. Think'st thus to die?
More weighty crimes deserve more weighty punishment.
Whence this boldness, unnat'ral to thy sex?
Whence but in strength of some infernal spell,
Of the foul prompting of some lying fiend?
Remember thy connexion with the hag
Who fell on Compeigne's field, men's awe of thee—
Confess the truth—declare what witchery used.

Joan. What witchery used! the witchery which a mind,
Bent on one single project, can exert,
When fitting opportunity doth meet
The master-passion which has fed its fires:
That witchery, harsh man and most unjust,
By which insulted virtue makes thee crouch,
As now thou dost, beneath a prisoner's eye,
Though deemed forsaken and alone.

Bed. No more!
Thou dost but aggravate the guilt too clear.
Hear thy dread sentence, and prepare to meet it—
Convicted of the cursed crime of witchcraft,
Thou diest at noon to-morrow.

Beau. This subdues her.
The blood has left her cheek, and as a statue,
Transfixed, she stands. One might dispute she breathed
But for her quivering lip. See! she would speak,
But the words die.

Joan. The bitter cup is full!
Believed a reprobate and leagued with hell,
My name, my memory held in destestation!
Die as accursed of Heaven! (to Beau.) 'Tis false! most false!
And on thy head a deeper crime shall rest,
Than this so foul thou lay'st to me—the weight
Of guiltless blood. Thou mays't condemn me here;
But think, once more before the judgment-seat
Of Him who all shall judge, we must again
Each other meet. How wilt thou meet me there?
This charge unjust shall scathe thy shudd'ring soul,
And sight of me shall blast thy hopes of heaven.
Prince, thou'rt of gallant race.

Bed. I'll hear no more.

Joan. Oh! there are those who on this hour will think
With bitterness, when princely honour goads,
And noblest blood proves no defence.

Beau. (to Bed.) She threatens!
Beware lest some malign, some fatal influence—

Joan. Blind Man! the dumb e'en now have found a voice
To curb injustice. The poor worm itself
Will, by its very writhings, plead its wrongs,
And show the cruelty of him that crushed it.
Oh! not for life I plead—death hath no terror,
Existence scarce one charm to cheat my eyes.
Grant me the doom thou threat'st—nor passing sigh,
Nor murmur shall escape me; but to die
On this most monstrous charge! I kneel to thee
And thus would stir the soldier in thy breast,
The patriot, the upright man, if not the judge.

[Kneels to Bedford.

Bed. We owe the act in justice to ourselves
And to our veterans' arms.

Joan. Welcome that thought. [Rises.
I have no more to ask: rightly thou sayst.
A woman's hand hath dimmed thy splendid name,
And writ upon thy soldier's brow—defeat,
And in a woman's blood wash out the stain.
But oh! injurious prince, of this be sure—
Thou never wilt regain what thou hast lost.
The land is free, her chain for ever broken;
Nor force of arms nor policy shall wrest
The sceptre from the hand that wields it now.
But hark! what means that agonizing shout,
That wail of lamentation, noise confused,
The braying of the battle? A frantic matricide
The mother is become, and drunk with blood
Of sons of France, now slakes unnat'ral thirst
In the red fountain of her children's veins—
Showing in all her cruelty and rage,
From whom she took the cup of retribution.
(To Bedford.) And thou, thou art disgraced—this unjust deed
Shall sully thy fair name to latest time—
Shall wrest from England's son a blush for thee—
A proud acquittal for myself.

---

Scene V.

Warwick. Countess.

Count. Hail, lovely May!
Thou month of flowers, sweet hopes and rapt'rous song;
Young zephyrs kiss thy steps and scatter bliss.
But how! thou dost not answer, dost not heed me.

War. This cheerful sky ill suits this day's proceedings.
The maid this morning is condemned to die.

Count. Canst thou not save her? If my Warwick plead,
None may resist him.

War. Bedford, Burgundy,
Have not, my gentle Alice, hearts like thine.
As well might I essay to win, by words,
The ravening tiger to relax his hold,
When the first taste of blood is on his tongue,
As these to mitigate the maiden's doom.

Count. She must not die—so young, and, I could say,
Although it scents of war, so brave; and, ah!
Perhaps some gallant knight has won her heart.
It must be so! woman was born to love—
The mean, some mean companion to divide
Her joys; the noble, one than self more noble—
That heavy sigh!

War. A hateful task is mine.
The barbarous sentence I must see enforced.
Oh! would we were upon the banks of Avon!—

Count. Would that we were! my arm fast lock'd in thine,
Not clad in steel, but—

War. Hark! the bell has struck
That calls me to my duty.

Count. I did not hear it.
The wind, more kind than thou, has shook its wings,
And the unwelcome sound dispersed in pity.
Nay, thou mayst linger yet.

Enter Attendant, followed by Dunois.

War. Whence this intrusion?

Du N. Bid him retire. (Raises his vizor.)

War. Du Nois! what madness brings thee?

Du N. That which hath turned the fate of empires, kings—
Mine now is in thy hands.

War. Explain. (I tremble.)

Du N. This is no time for words—less for concealment.
This day—a deed—

War. Oh, heaven!

Du N. What wouldst venture
For sake of yon sweet form should ill assail her?

War. My life were worthless in such cause.

Du N. Couldst see her
Dragged from thy arms to meet a horrid death?

War. Earth's potentates combined should fail to part us.

Du N. Warwick! there was a time when ice had bound
These lips, and easier 'twere to die than speak.
I felt ashamed it should be thought I loved;
But now, with equal agony and pride,
I own—I love.—

War. The maid! unhappy friend!

Du N. Thou hast not, then, forgot thy former pledge—
The pledge thou gav'st, when from my hands redeemed,
"Should ever need be thine—remember Warwick."
I claim it now.

War. Name ought I can concede,
But spare, oh, spare what honour must forbid
Du Nois to ask, or Warwick grant.

[Going,

Du N. Stay! hear me!
Give but the word, the countersign agreed,
And by the holy fount of truth I swear
No blood of thine shall flow this day through me.
Nay, more, if ought of blame attach to thee,
I swear to place myself in Bedford's power.
Let me not plead in vain. By all that justice,
By all that mercy, all that pity wakes,
By all that thou hast sworn of love to woman,
Grant my request!

War. Cease! cease! a cruel strife
Thou raisest in my breast.

[Countess kneels to Warwick.

Du N. Ah! see who pleads!
Canst thou resist that look? By this joint act—

War. Du Nois, my Alice, rise—spare me this trial.

Du N. End this suspense.

War. It must not, cannot be.
Witness, O Heaven! what this denial costs.
But honour's laws forbid what feeling prompts—
The friend would grant—the soldier must deny.

[Going, he returns.

Wouldst see her once again—here is my signet—
Thou needst not pity less than I. Farewell.

[Exeunt.

Du N. Cut off from ev'ry hope!—friend, foe alike—
Has Heaven itself forgotten to be just?
Oh, curse of courage, impotence of strength,
Panting to dare the worst, denied the means.
But I shall see her once again—Oh, joy!
Oh, agony! can ye indeed thus meet?

---

Scene VI.—Prison.

Joan.

Joan. How in its terrors hath the tempest raged!
'Tis misery's privilege alone to hear
The crash of warring elements unmoved,
And coldly tranquil press the iron couch.
These drops are but the remnant of the storm,
Cast by the pitying spirit as he fled,
His work of vengeance done, his fury quenched.
So fall the tears of fond regret, that bathe
The mourner's cheek, when time hath partly soothed her;
Large but not frequent, sad but not acute,
Sure proof of anguish past, not sorrow nigh.
And see, the young dawn from the sable couch
Of her more ancient spouse, now softly steals,
All bright and lovely, though in tears bedewed,
Silent to watch the rising beams of him
Beneath whose glance she melts, but must not wed.
Her love is set too high, and night, all foul,
As he appears in her averted eyes,
Again shall clasp her in his chilly arms,
And loathing claim her his. Her fate is mine,
And death, cold death, the bridegroom by whose side
I soon shall rest.

Enter Du Nois.

Du N. This then is thy abode!
This iron bed thy couch, this straw thy pillow!

Joan. Whose voice——

Du N. Knowst me not, Joan?

Joan. Du Nois! thou here?
Oh say, what brings thee to this sad abode?
Alas! has evil too befallen thee?

Du N. The anguish of a mind that ne'er has learnt
To bear a load exertion may not soothe.
My life was set to see thee once again,
Though in the gloom, the horrors of a prison.

Joan. Thou dost not deem me then accursed, forsaken,
Stained with foulest crime?

Du N. Thee cursed, forsaken!
Oh, yes! thou'rt cursed indeed with too much merit,
And greater crime is none.

Joan. By thee acquitted!
Oh! happiness! oh! unexpected bliss!
I yet possess a friend!

Du N. (Burst, heart, thy bonds!)
Doth friendship's sacred garb clothe friendship only?
Recall the past, remember Orleans' walls,
The battles fought, the warring perils shared,
The blessings joined—how have I wounded thee?

Joan. I stand upon the confines of the grave,
And must not, dare not think upon the past.
The reed hath bounds, and by the tempest spared,
May sink beneath an insect. I've borne much,
And this unlooked-for kindness overpowers me.
But one request.

Du N. Name it—give me some share
In thee, though in the giving it must cease.

Joan. The seal of death is on me now. This chain, the king—
'Twill tell its own sad tale—but say to him—
No—down throbbing heart—farewell. Oh! leave me!
Yet let me gaze once more upon a friend,
Ere I and earthly comfort part for ever.
Thou'lt sometimes think of me when I am gone,
And midst the shouts of victory, perhaps,
Will hear the voice, will see the form of her
Who often shared those triumphs by thy side,—
Wilt mark the vacant place with kindly sorrow?
Once more I'll press this valiant hand—and then—
Farewell, for ever.

Enter Countess.

Count. Du Nois.

Du N. Ha! who calls?

Count. Behold this scroll: here read what you would know.
Haste! haste! from Warwick I have stol'n unseen,
And trait'rous been to him whom most I love,
In love's own cause.

Du N. And thou, for this disloyalty,
Shall be absolved—this pure and holy act
Shall win approval e'en from Heaven itself,
And plead for thee when other deeds may fail thee.

Count. Blame not my Warwick for his stern resolve:—
Firm as he is, he has a tender heart.
Had not his face been buried in his arm,
To hide the tears he shed, I had not thus
Escaped him unperceived.

Du N. Yet is there hope.
Ah! say, couldst thou be plucked from this dread fate.

Joan. Delude me not with erring thought of bliss,
Nor yet deceive thyself—ere morrow's dawn
The dews will bathe the spot where earthly suff'ring
Hath found an end. No hand, though brave as thine,
Can pluck me from it.

Du N. Never has it failed me,
Nor shall it fail me now—nay, doubt me not;
I swore to lay thee in a grave that's free—
Rouen is cursed by the usurper's foot,
And here thou shalt not die, so hear me Heaven!—
But not another moment may I linger.
When next we meet—'twill be in bliss.

[Exit.

Joan. When next
We meet 'twill be, I trust, in bliss, but bliss
That waits in heaven.

Count. May I not speak to thee?
I would not give thee pain, no, not in thought.
I knew thee brave, so brave I feared thy name,
And never had I dared to venture near thee;
But now to see thee thus, so sweet, so gentle,
I feel as if some silver chord had linked
Our hearts together, and would claim thee sister.
And thou canst weep!

Joan. Tears are woman's birthright,
Starting to her relief in joy or sorrow.
I thought myself abhorred, cast off by all,
And I have found a friend, midst all unchanged,
And sweeter still—compassion in my sex.

Count. Thou must not, shall not die. I'll to my Warwick.

Joan. It is in vain, and the swift moments fly.
Lady, leave me. I must be calm in death,
Lest nature's weakness make my foes to triumph.
The blessing of a spirit thou hast soothed
Gild thy bright path and cheer thy parting hour.
Farewell, for ever.

Count. No; Du Nois, Warwick,
Shall save thee yet.

[Exit.

Joan. Alas! hope cheats me not.
My hour is come, and I content to die.
It was a trying hour; for hard it is
To measure back our steps to life, when we
Have almost knocked at death's grim portals.
One tear for thee, Du Nois, the last I shed.
One prayer for thee, my country and my king.
My king! a princely diadem is his,
And mine this murky dungeon and these chains:
Yet have I placed him there—and mine
The hand that stemmed his fortune's tide, and broke
The fetters that enslaved the land.
Enough. The bitterness of death, is past.
That thought has robbed the flames of all their terrors.
Farewell to earth! farewell to earthly ties!
When next I think of him, of thee, my country,
Then will eternity have set its impress
Upon remembrance.

---

Scene VII.—Street in Rouen.

Officer. Soldiers.

Off. Place upon every gate a double guard.
Let none have egress: line the leading streets,
And death to him who dares to quit his post.

[Exit.

Enter Du Nois, Xaintrailles, &c.

Du N. Now mark me! that we may escape detection,
We must divide our fifty into tens,
And mingle in the train.

Xaint. Where rendezvous?

Du N. By yonder church. The narrow turn must break
In part the line. Upon the signal given
Rush through the guards, promptly secure the maid,
And whilst confusion reigns we'll force a passage
To the eastern gate. I have already gained it.

Xaint. The time?

Du N. The first deep toll of yonder bell.

Xaint. Enough! all hearts are in the cause.

[Exeunt.

Another part of the Street in front of the Prison.

Enter Spectators.

First Spectator. What crowds collect! each avenue is filled,
And every street appears a solid mass:
E'en to the topmost ridge each house is crammed
With earnest gazers; not an eye but turns
Towards the black prison-walls; yet 'tis an hour
Ere the gates open for the sad procession.
Are scenes of death and agony so pleasant
That such a throng of eager witnesses
Should press to view them?

Second Spec. Such a death is new,
And thoughts of men are differently moved.
Some deem the maid condemned a tool of hell,
And some a chosen instrument of Heaven.
Fain would they see which will assert its claim;
Whether the fiend will leave her to her fate,
Or some great miracle be worked to save her.

Enter several of Du Nois' Friends.

First Voice. What sound is that?

Second Voice. It is the abbey bell.
None can mistake its toll.

Third Voice. It cannot be;
'Tis not the hour.

Enter Xaintrailles.

Xaint. The governor suspecting
Treason perchance, or some attempt at rescue,
Has changed both hour and route. The walls are manned,
And every part is thronged with bristling spears.

[The Procession partly seen in the distance.

Enter Du Nois.

Du N. Lose not an instant, or the maid is lost!
Hurry down yonder avenue: by this
We meet you at the church.

[Exeunt.

---

Scene VIII.

Enter Du Nois.

Du N. The guards, it seems, suspected me, and made
Access impossible.

Enter Xaintrailles and others.

Xaint. Turn, turn Du Nois!
Make for the eastern gate!

Du N. Is she then safe?

Xaint. It is no time for words: we must be gone.

Du N. Is the maid safe? I ask. Du Nois doth ask.

Xaint. Canst thou be ignorant?

Du N. Say on, or deep
Within thy breast—speak!

Xaint. Thy grasp doth choke me.
Release thy hold!

Du N. Now answer me, and quickly.
Where is the maid?

Xaint. Look on yon rising cloud:
Safe in its breast her spirit mounts to heaven,
That mercy to implore which man denied her.

[Du Nois sinks on his knee, and continues to watch the cloud.

Officer to Xaint. How calm he is become!

Du N. One speck alone—
Now not a trace remains. (rises.) How died the maid?
Suppress no circumstance, no word, no look.

Xaint. Thou hast beheld her in the shock of battle,
Midst dangers calm, when stoutest bosoms shook.
Hast often seen, how in such fearful times,
She would upraise her speaking eyes to heaven,
And stand in silence, while her countenance
Reflected beams she thence appeared to catch;
Such was her bearing then. Her step was firm,
Yet modest, as might properly become
One, who in presence of her mighty Judge
Must quickly stand. Nor had her wonted smile
Forsook her lip, but lingered, loath to part,
Its former sweetness mixed with heavenly hope.
Nor scowling eye, (for savage looks were there,)
Nor piercing gaze, nor pity's tender glance,
Nor urgent priest's dire threats to fright or force
Confession from her lips, she heeded once:
Save when to the accursed pile fast bound,
He pointed to the smoking heap around her,
And bade her timely think what hotter flames
Awaited one who had been leagued with devils.
Then passed a sudden flash o'er her pale cheek,
And in those tones so often proved resistless,
"Blessed," she said, "is he who hath reserved
All judgment to himself. May thy injustice
Be forgotten when thou most needest mercy."
A hideous shout was raised—my blood with horror—

Du N. Thou couldst not longer look?

Xaint. I shuddering fled.
The sound of crackling blaze, the trumpet's wail,
The groan of thousands ringing in my ear,
In dread of what to thee—

Du N. And she is gone,
In ignorance of all I felt for her,
Or could have done! And nought remains of her
That I might see how lovely even death
Can show himself, when to the lovely joined;
Might cheat my soul awhile she did but sleep,
And seal a last, first kiss upon her brow!
Earth not a particle now holds of her,
O'er which these stranger drops might fall!

Xaint. Du Nois!
Can this be so?

Du N. I do not hide my face
Ashamed thou shouldst behold Du Nois can weep;
Or show how grief can bend e'en his stern spirit:
But when in after days you speak of this,
And I perchance have found a bloody grave,
Say, nought in life he dared, so awful seemed,
As sight of agony which wrung his heart,
And sank the soldier in the man.

Xaint. Assist me.
Let's bear him hence.

THE END.

---

Joseph Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn, Lanc.