to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had been
suffered, had been survived.

Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-burdened man is in dreams haunted
and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes; and because upon that
fluctuating mirror, rising from the fens of death, most of all are
reflected the sweet countenances which the man has laid in ruins;
therefore I know, bishop, that you also, entering your final dream, saw
Domremy. That fountain of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed
itself to your eyes in pure morning dews; but neither dews nor the holy
dawn could cleanse away the bright spots of innocent blood upon its
surface. By the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated, that hid her
face. But as _you_ draw near, the woman raises her wasted features.
Would Domremy know them again for the features of her child? Ah, but
_you_ know them, bishop, well! Oh mercy! what a groan was _that_ which
the servants, waiting outside the bishop's dream at his bedside, heard
from his laboring heart, as at this moment he turned away from the
fountain and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off. Yet not
_so_ to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before he dies.
In the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find a respite? What
a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there! In glades where only wild
deer should run, armies and nations are assembling; towering in the
fluctuating crowd are phantoms that belong to departed hours. There is
the great English Prince, Regent of France. There is my lord of
Winchester, the princely cardinal that died and made no sign. There is
the Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What
building is that which hands so rapid are raising? Is it a martyr's
scaffold? Will they burn the child of Domremy a second time? No; it is a
tribunal that rises to the clouds; and two nations stand around it,
waiting for a trial. Shall my Lord of Beauvais sit upon the judgment
seat, and again number the hours for the innocent? Ah! no; he is the
prisoner at the bar. Already all is waiting; the mighty audience is
gathered, the Court are hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are
arrayed, the trumpets are sounding, the judge is taking his place. Oh!
but this is sudden. My lord, have you no counsel?--"Counsel I have none;
in heaven above, or on earth beneath, counselor there is none now that
would take a brief from _me_; all are silent." Is it indeed come to
this? Alas!