Hisses and furious imprecations drown her voice. The Cardinal of Winchester, the Bishops, judges, and captains rise simultaneously so as to obtain a better view of the execution. After placing Joan standing with her back against the stake, one of the executioners fastens her to it by the waist and neck with iron carcans; a chain holds her feet; only her hands remain free, and with them she clasps the rough wooden cross that one of the English executioners has just fashioned for her, and that she holds close to her lips. A priest in a surplice, carrying one of those large silver crucifixes usually borne at the head of processions, arrives in a hurry; he places himself at a distance opposite the pyre and holds up the crucifix as high as his arms allow him. It is the crucifix that the monk Isambard has sent for. He points it out to Joan Darc. She turns her head towards it and keeps her eyes fastened upon the image of Christ. "Come, reverend Father," says one of the executioners to the monk Isambard, "do not stay here. The flames are about to shoot up." "In a moment," answers the monk; "I shall follow you. I only wish to finish the prayer that I began." "I shall make you come down faster than you would like, my reverend mumbler of prayers," observes the executioner in a low voice. The two executioners descend from the platform of the pyre; the monk administers to Joan Darc the supreme consolations. Suddenly a dry and lively crackling is heard from the base of the pyre, followed by puffs of smoke and thin tongues of flame. "Father!" cries Joan Darc anxiously, "descend! Descend quickly! The pyre is on fire!" Such is the sublime adieu of the victim to one of her judges! The monk descends precipitately, casting an angry look at the executioners. These light the pyre at several places. Volumes of black smoke rise upward, and envelop Joan Darc from the public gaze. The fire glistens; it runs and twines itself through the lower layers of the fagots; presently the pile is all on fire; the flames rise; they are fanned by the breeze that blows away the cloud of smoke, and Joan Darc is again exposed to view. The fire reaches the straw and twigs on top of the platform on which her feet rest. Her gown begins to smoke. Firmly held by the triple iron bands that clasp her neck, waist and feet, she writhes and utters a piercing cry: "WATER! WATER!" A second later, as if regretting the vain appeal for mercy that pain drew from her, she exclaims: "IT IS GOD WHO INSPIRED ME!" At that moment Joan Darc's gown takes fire and the flames that flare up from it join the hundred other lambent tongues that shoot upward. From the midst of the tall furnace a voice in a weird accent is heard to exclaim: "JESUS!" * * * * * The virgin of Gaul has expiated her immortal glory.