The gateway below, in the street, is the same age as the tower: but the age of the outer gilt clock, which faces the street, is not more than the sixteenth century. CHAPTER XI In a straight line from the Rue Grosse-Horloge, it is not five minutes to the _vieux marché_ where St. Jeanne d'Arc was martyred. There is nothing to mark the spot but a tablet let in on the path, and the words: Jeanne d'Arc 30 Mai 1431. Nothing else. Beside it on one of the huge market halls hang many dirty, artificial wreaths, and under them a marble tablet, with these words inscribed on it:-- "_Sur cette place s'éléva le bûcher de Jeanne d'Arc._ "_Les cendres de la glorieuse victoire furent jetées à la Seine._" And below it is a map of old Rouen (1431) shewing that the _piloi_ was close to the spot where Joan of Arc was burnt, as was also the Church of St. Saviour (which has completely disappeared). The square now is surrounded almost entirely by modern buildings and hotels, and the two large iron market halls take up nearly all the space. I cannot imagine a greater demand on one's powers of imagination than is required of one who stands, under these modern conditions, and tries to conceive the scene that took place there six centuries ago. The woman who dared much, ventured much, and suffered much, for the sake of that which is "not seen, only believed," standing there in the midst of the fire, her eyes on that Other Figure which, under the form of the uplifted crucifix, was present with her, unseen by the rabble; the English bishops who only wanted to get to their dinner; the coarse crowd who came to gloat over her sufferings; the whole brutal scene which was to be the last which should meet her eyes before the door into the spirit-world should open. Conditions of life, points of view, are so completely, so absolutely changed, that one cannot realise the tragedy which was acted out to its grim finish on that spot. And one looks again at the dirty, begrimed tablet at one's feet: Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mai 1431, and yet one _cannot_ realise it all, cannot mentally see it happening. Nevertheless it did take place, and it remains for ever a stained page in the volume of the deeds of England: a stained page of blackest ingratitude in the annals of France. I stood by that stone a long time. For there, on that very spot, is sacred ground. There, six hundred years ago, a human soul dared death in its most terrible aspect, for--the sake of an Idea. There are very few to-day, men or women, who would dare so much for the sake of an idea: even when that idea is backed by faith, as hers was. And yet there is nothing greater, nothing more powerful, if one could see it in its true light, than an idea of the kind that was hers.