THE EXECUTIONER. Yes, Master. LADVENU. Is the stake ready? THE EXECUTIONER. It is. In the market-place. The English have built it too high for me to get near her and make the death easier. It will be a cruel death. JOAN [_horrified_] But you are not going to burn me now? THE INQUISITOR. You realize it at last. LADVENU. There are eight hundred English soldiers waiting to take you to the market-place the moment the sentence of excommunication has passed the lips of your judges. You are within a few short moments of that doom. JOAN [_looking round desperately for rescue_] Oh God! LADVENU. Do not despair, Joan. The Church is merciful. You can save yourself. JOAN [_hopefully_] Yes: my voices promised me I should not be burnt. St Catherine bade me be bold. CAUCHON. Woman: are you quite mad? Do you not yet see that your voices have deceived you? JOAN. Oh no: that is impossible. CAUCHON. Impossible! They have led you straight to your excommunication, and to the stake which is there waiting for you. LADVENU [_pressing the point hard_] Have they kept a single promise to you since you were taken at Compiègne? The devil has betrayed you. The Church holds out its arms to you. JOAN [_despairing_] Oh, it is true: it is true: my voices have deceived me. I have been mocked by devils: my faith is broken. I have dared and dared; but only a fool will walk into a fire: God, who gave me my commonsense, cannot will me to do that. LADVENU. Now God be praised that He has saved you at the eleventh hour! [_He hurries to the vacant seat at the scribes’ table, and snatches a sheet of paper, on which he sets to work writing eagerly_]. CAUCHON. Amen! JOAN. What must I do? CAUCHON. You must sign a solemn recantation of your heresy. JOAN. Sign? That means to write my name. I cannot write. CAUCHON. You have signed many letters before. JOAN. Yes; but someone held my hand and guided the pen. I can make my mark. THE CHAPLAIN [_who has been listening with growing alarm and indignation_] My lord: do you mean that you are going to allow this woman to escape us? THE INQUISITOR. The law must take its course, Master de Stogumber. And you know the law. THE CHAPLAIN [_rising, purple with fury_] I know that there is no faith in a Frenchman. [_Tumult, which he shouts down_]. I know what my lord the Cardinal of Winchester will say when he hears of this. I know what the Earl of Warwick will do when he learns that you intend to betray him. There are eight hundred men at the gate who will see that this abominable witch is burnt in spite of your teeth. THE ASSESSORS [_meanwhile_] What is this? What did he say? He accuses us of treachery! This is past bearing. No faith in a Frenchman! Did you hear that? This is an intolerable fellow. Who is he? Is this what English Churchmen are like? He must be mad or drunk, etc., etc.