f history. We must imagine a vast enclosure, in whose midst upon a
raised throne, as president of the august tribunal, sat God's vicar on
earth, absolute and supreme judge, emblem of temporal and spiritual
power, of authority human and divine. To right and left of the sovereign
pontiff, the cardinals in their red robes sat in chairs set round in a
circle, and behind these princes of the Sacred College stretched rows of
bishops extending to the end of the hall, with vicars, canons, deacons,
archdeacons, and the whole immense hierarchy of the Church. Facing the
pontifical throne was a platform reserved for the Queen of Naples and her
suite. At the pope's feet stood the ambassadors from the King of
Hungary, who played the part of accusers without speaking a word, the
circumstances of the crime and all the proofs having been discussed
beforehand by a committee appointed for the purpose. The rest of the
hall was filled by a brilliant crowd of high dignitaries, illustrious
captains, and noble envoys, all vying with one another in proud display.
Everyone ceased to breathe, all eyes were fixed on the dais whence Joan
was to speak her own defence. A movement of uneasy curiosity made this
compact mass of humanity surge towards the centre, the cardinals above
raised like proud peacocks over a golden harvest-field shaken in the
breeze.

The queen appeared, hand in hand with her uncle, the old Cardinal of
Perigord, and her aunt, the Countess Agnes. Her gait was so modest and
proud, her countenance so melancholy and pure, her looks so open and
confident, that even before she spoke every heart was hers. Joan was now
twenty years of age; her magnificent beauty was fully developed, but an
extreme pallor concealed the brilliance of her transparent satin skin,
and her hollow cheek told the tale of expiation and suffering. Among the
spectators who looked on most eagerly there was a certain young man with
strongly marked features, glowing eyes, and brown hair, whom we shall
meet again later on in our narrative; but we will not divert our readers'
attention, but only tell them that his name was James of Aragon, that he
was Prince of Majorca, and would have been ready to shed every drop of
his blood only to check one single tear that hung on Joan's eyelids. The
queen spoke in an agitated, trembling voice, stopping from time to time
to dry her moist and shining eyes, or to breathe one of those deep sighs
that go straight to the heart.