A few weeks later the rabble of Rouen stood before an iron cage suspended from a tower. Derisive epithets and cruel insults passed from lip to lip and were greeted with indecent laughter. In a corner of the cage sat a cowering figure bound with fetters. Her face could not be seen, for her head was bowed in anguish. One of the mob thrust his lance toward her to make her look up. He was successful. She slowly raised her head, and the crowd looked upon eyes full of sorrow, eyes full of purity and beauty,—the eyes of Joan. The Duke of Luxemburg had completed his infamous bargain. He had delivered her to the English. Chapter VI The Martyrdom Jean Renault sat in a tavern at Chinon, abstractedly gazing out over the flowery fields which were visible from his windows. It was a day in May, 1431, and the time and the scene painfully reminded him this was the third spring since the incidents in the forest and the Ursuline church. He was not a dreamer, however, but a man of quick and resolute action. It was the thought that he had been prevented from accomplishing the purpose upon which his heart was set that made him gloomy and abstracted. A heavy step interrupted his reverie. “Ha! the villain,” exclaimed La Hire, as he entered, almost beside himself with rage. “The sordid, venal wretch! The dishonorable scoundrel, who would sell that noble one for contemptible gold! But just let him wait! I am searching for him and I am on his track!” “Noble sir,” interrupted Jean, “of whom speak you?” “Of whom am I speaking? Of whom else than Luxemburg? That—” “Ah! of him! I too was thinking of him.” “I can well believe it, my boy,” for although Jean was now a knight, La Hire continued to call him “my boy.” “I cannot sleep because of it. Shame and disgrace upon him.” “I wish we had been at Compiègne. Then we should have had a chance to meet him.” “Yes, yes, to meet him—but the poor Maiden!” “Yes, the poor Maiden! I was also thinking of her.” “She languishes in a gloomy prison.” “Yes, in a gloomy prison.” “Her delicate limbs are loaded with fetters.” “Yes, loaded with fetters!” “Condemned to bread and water, like a felon.” “Condemned to bread and water!” “She, the rescuer of France!” “Of whom speak you, noble sir?” “Of whom do I speak? Saint George, of whom else than Joan?” “Of Joan? I thought it was of—” “Ah, you were thinking of Marie! The poor child! May God’s vengeance overtake Luxemburg!” “And what about Joan?” “Do you not know? Why, of course you do not, for I have not told you. He has given her up, sold her to the English, the villain!” “Who has?” cried the astonished Jean. “The Duke of Luxemburg.” “God help her! And the King?” “Pah! the King! He doesn’t care.” “Oh, the shame!” “Oh, the disgrace!” “But by what legal authority have they put Joan in prison?” “By what legal authority? Ask the priests who have condemned her.” “The priests!”