cry you mercy!" interrupted the Chancellor, who saw a dangerous
enthusiasm rising in the King's face. "March upon Paris? Does your
Excellency forget that the way bristles with English strongholds?"

"That for your English strongholds!" and Joan snapped her fingers
scornfully. "Whence have we marched in these last days? From Gien. And
whither? To Rheims. What bristled between? English strongholds. What are
they now? French ones--and they never cost a blow!" Here applause broke
out from the group of generals, and Joan had to pause a moment to let it
subside. "Yes, English strongholds bristled before us; now French
ones bristle behind us. What is the argument? A child can read it.
The strongholds between us and Paris are garrisoned by no new breed of
English, but by the same breed as those others--with the same fears, the
same questionings, the same weaknesses, the same disposition to see the
heavy hand of God descending upon them. We have but to march!--on the
instant--and they are ours, Paris is ours, France is ours! Give the
word, O my King, command your servant to--"

"Stay!" cried the Chancellor. "It would be madness to put our affront
upon his Highness the Duke of Burgundy. By the treaty which we have
every hope to make with him--"

"Oh, the treaty which we hope to make with him! He has scorned you for
years, and defied you. Is it your subtle persuasions that have softened
his manners and beguiled him to listen to proposals? No; it was
blows!--the blows which we gave him! That is the only teaching that
that sturdy rebel can understand. What does he care for wind? The treaty
which we hope to make with him--alack! He deliver Paris! There is no
pauper in the land that is less able to do it. He deliver Paris! Ah, but
that would make great Bedford smile! Oh, the pitiful pretext! the blind
can see that this thin pour-parler with its fifteen-day truce has no
purpose but to give Bedford time to hurry forward his forces against us.
More treachery--always treachery! We call a council of war--with nothing
to council about; but Bedford calls no council to teach him what our
course is. He knows what he would do in our place. He would hang his
traitors and march upon Paris! O gentle King, rouse! The way is open,
Paris beckons, France implores, Speak and we--"

"Sire, it is madness, sheer madness! Your Excellency, we cannot, we must
not go back from what we have done; we have proposed to treat, we must
treat with the Duke of Bu