The judges pronounced the whole trial to be polluted by wrong and calumny, and therefore null and void; finally, they proclaimed that neither Joan nor any of her kindred had incurred any blot of infamy, and freed them from every shadow of disgrace. By order of the tribunal, this new verdict was read publicly in all the cities of France, and first at Rouen, and in the Old Market Place, where she had been cruelly burnt. This was done with great solemnity; processions were made, sermons were preached, and on the site of her martyrdom a stone cross was soon raised to her memory. The world has no relic of Joan. Her armour, her banner, the picture of herself that she saw at Arras, have all disappeared. We possess but the record of a fair face framed in plentiful dark hair, of a strong and graceful shape, of a sweet woman's voice. And it seems--and yet, indeed, hardly is--a wonder that no worthy poem has been made in her honour. She is one of the few for whom poet and romancer can do little; for as there is nothing in her life that needs either to be hidden or adorned, we see her best in the clear and searching light of history. VI CATHERINE DOUGLAS THE TRAGEDY OF JAMES I. OF SCOTS. 20TH FEBRUARY, 1437 NOTE.--Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honour of her heroic act when she barred the door with her arm against the murderers of James the First of Scots, received popularly the name of "Barlass." The name remains to her descendants, the Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken arm. She married Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie. A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem, known as _The King's Quhair_, are quoted in the course of this ballad. I Catherine am a Douglas born, A name to all Scots dear; And Kate Barlass they've called me now Through many a waning year. This old arm's withered now. 'T was once Most deft 'mong maidens all To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, To smite the palm-play ball. In hall adown the close-linked dance It has shone most white and fair; It has been the rest for a true lord's head, And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, And the bar to a King's chambère. Ay, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, And hark with bated breath How good King James, King Robert's son, Was foully done to death. Through all the days of his gallant youth The princely James was pent, By his friends at first and then by his foes, In long imprisonment. For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, By treason's murderous brood Was slain; and the father quaked for the child With the royal mortal blood. I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care, Was his childhood's life assured; And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured.