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knew she was pronouncing sentence of death upon herself. So did poor Manchon. And he wrote in the margin abreast of it—
Responsio mortifera
Fatal answer. Yes, all present knew that it was indeed a fatal answer. Then there fell a silence such as falls in a sick-room when the watchers of the dying draw a deep breath and say softly one to another, "All is over."
Here, likewise, all was over; but after some moments Cauchon, wishing to clinch this matter and make it final, put this question—
"Do you still believe that your Voices are St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?"
"Yes—and that they come from God."
"Yet you denied them on the scaffold?"
Then she made direct and clear affirmation that she had never had any intention to deny them; and that if—I noted the if—"if she had made some retractions and revocations on the scaffold it was from fear of the fire, and it was a violation of the truth."
There it is again, you see. She certainly never knew what it was she had done on the scaffold until she was told of it afterwards by these people and by her Voices.
And now she closed this most painful scene with these words; and there was a weary note in them that was pathetic—
"I would rather do my penance all at once; let me die. I cannot endure captivity any longer."
The spirit born for sunshine and liberty so longed for release that it would take it in any form, even that.
Several among the company of judges went from the place troubled and sorrowful, the others in another mood. In the court of the castle we found the Earl of Warwick and fifty English waiting, impatient for news. As soon as Cauchon saw them he shouted—laughing—think of a man destroying a friendless poor girl and then having the heart to laugh at it:
"Make yourselves comfortable—it's all over with her!"
