CAUCHON. I do not say that there were no supernatural powers on her side. But the names on that white banner were not the names of Satan and Beelzebub, but the blessed names of our Lord and His holy mother. And your commander who was drowned—Clahz-da I think you call him— WARWICK. Glasdale. Sir William Glasdale. CAUCHON. Glass-dell, thank you. He was no saint; and many of our people think that he was drowned for his blasphemies against The Maid. WARWICK [_beginning to look very dubious_] Well, what are we to infer from all this, my lord? Has The Maid converted you? CAUCHON. If she had, my lord, I should have known better than to have trusted myself here within your grasp. WARWICK [_blandly deprecating_] Oh! oh! My lord! CAUCHON. If the devil is making use of this girl—and I believe he is— WARWICK [_reassured_] Ah! You hear, Messire John? I knew your lordship would not fail us. Pardon my interruption. Proceed. CAUCHON. If it be so, the devil has longer views than you give him credit for. WARWICK. Indeed? In what way? Listen to this, Messire John. CAUCHON. If the devil wanted to damn a country girl, do you think so easy a task would cost him the winning of half a dozen battles? No, my lord: any trumpery imp could do that much if the girl could be damned at all. The Prince of Darkness does not condescend to such cheap drudgery. When he strikes, he strikes at the Catholic Church, whose realm is the whole spiritual world. When he damns, he damns the souls of the entire human race. Against that dreadful design The Church stands ever on guard. And it is as one of the instruments of that design that I see this girl. She is inspired, but diabolically inspired. THE CHAPLAIN. I told you she was a witch. CAUCHON [_fiercely_] She is not a witch. She is a heretic. THE CHAPLAIN. What difference does that make? CAUCHON. You, a priest, ask me that! You English are strangely blunt in the mind. All these things that you call witchcraft are capable of a natural explanation. The woman’s miracles would not impose on a rabbit: she does not claim them as miracles herself. What do her victories prove but that she has a better head on her shoulders than your swearing Glass-dells and mad bull Talbots, and that the courage of faith, even though it be a false faith, will always outstay the courage of wrath? THE CHAPLAIN [_hardly able to believe his ears_] Does your lordship compare Sir John Talbot, the heir to the earldom of Shrewsbury, to a mad bull?!!! WARWICK. It would not be seemly for you to do so, Messire John, as you are still six removes from a barony. But as I am an earl, and Talbot is only a knight, I may make bold to accept the comparison. [_To the Bishop_] My lord: I wipe the slate as far as the witchcraft goes. None the less, we must burn the woman. CAUCHON. I cannot burn her. The Church cannot take life. And my first duty is to seek this girl’s salvation. WARWICK. No doubt. But you do burn people occasionally.