Weekly Calaveras chronicle., 1868-11-14
Death of Joan D'Arc.

There is something infinitely touch
ing in the saints and hero's relapse il
to simple humanity and womanhood
On that dark, unnatural May morning
when the heavy news was told her thai
she must die before sunset. She wep'
bitterly. Like Jeptha's daughter, she
mourned that her pure and beauteous
body should be thus early sacrificed
exclaiming, Helas !" me traitatiou
ainsi horriblement ct cruelment, qu'i
faille que mon roDpu, soft amour d hui
consume ct rendu en- cendres." She
shrank and shrieked, and writhed al
the thought of the flames, plying he'
self for the pain. But the saint tfi.
umphs soon-even through the frey
vista before her she sees better king
dom than France, a better home than
Domremy. Even in this death she
recognizes the "deliverance" promised
her by the "voices."
She appealed to God from the injus-
tice and cruelty of earth; she partook
of the holy sacrament; with many tears
she uttered her tremulous and touchir g
words to the Bishop of Beauvis, sum-
mons to answer for her death before
God. What childlike Daturalncss
A plaintive naivete, marked the words
she addressed to one of the preachers
who stood by: "Ah, Maitre Perre,
where shall | be this evening
We can fancy the fearful. wistful
look, the terrified tremble of the hands,
and all the voice broken in sobs in which
she said this. Then as the priest re-
piled: "Have you not good hope in
the Savior p the light of reinsurance
the smile, the clasped hands, the heav.
enwurd gaze, the voice clear and fervid
as she said: 80, yes, God aiding,
shall be in Paradise -
Bound and borne in a cart like COM
mon malefactor, surrounded by guard
of eight hundred English soldiers, Joan
D'Arc passed through the streets OF
Rouen to the marketplace. But in the
minds of the angels that awful hour
must have thrown into the shade all
foregone hours of triumph-grander to
them than the proudest conqueror in
his triumphal car, and followed price
less captives and the spoils of king
doms.
At the stake the maiden again brave.
ly proclaimed her faith in the "voices"
and nobly defended her king. Her
sublime but meek composure, her mar
velous womanly sweetness, fille1 many
of her prosecutors with wonder, pity
and vain remorse. The people looked
on as in horrible dream, weeping,
groaning, praying, but powerless to act.
One last word of reproach shivered the
petri6ed heart of the Bishop of Beau.
vass, cleft its way to deep, unsuspect-
ed vein of human feeling, and let it out
in tears.
The scaffold lowered high above the
crowd, huge pile of faggots lit at the
base, gigantic altar of the sacrifice, a
fiery Calvary.
When the flames uncoiled themselves
from below, and darted up in angry,
flashing lengths, Kissing and writhing !;
when they struck their fangs into her
flesh, the flesh cried out in shrieks that
must have echoed forever through the
guilty souls that heard.
Well had the young martyr learned
the self-forgetful spirit. In her agony,
through the flame and smoke of her
torment, she saw the danger of the faith
full priest, who held the crucifix above,
and entreated him to leave her. He
went. He bore from her sight the i'm
age of her crucifed Lord, but he left
beside her. in the midst of the flames,
the Lord himself.
May not her last cry of "Jesus ~
have been not cry of fear or supplica-
ton, but of joy and recognition, as she
sprang through the fiery gate of martyr
dom into the welcoming arms of His
compassion-into the bosom of His
Infinite love.