of that defect; he guided her hand with his own, and wrote her
name--Jehanne.

The great crime was accomplished. She had signed--what? She did not
know--but the others knew. She had signed a paper confessing herself a
sorceress, a dealer with devils, a liar, a blasphemer of God and
His angels, a lover of blood, a promoter of sedition, cruel, wicked,
commissioned of Satan; and this signature of hers bound her to resume
the dress of a woman.

There were other promises, but that one would answer, without the
others; and that one could be made to destroy her.

Loyseleur pressed forward and praised her for having done "such a good
day's work."

But she was still dreamy, she hardly heard.

Then Cauchon pronounced the words which dissolved the excommunication
and restored her to her beloved Church, with all the dear privileges of
worship. Ah, she heard that! You could see it in the deep gratitude that
rose in her face and transfigured it with joy.

But how transient was that happiness! For Cauchon, without a tremor of
pity in his voice, added these crushing words:

"And that she may repent of her crimes and repeat them no more, she is
sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, with the bread of affliction and
the water of anguish!"

Perpetual imprisonment! She had never dreamed of that--such a thing had
never been hinted to her by Loyseleur or by any other. Loyseleur had
distinctly said and promised that "all would be well with her." And the
very last words spoken to her by Erard, on that very platform, when he
was urging her to abjure, was a straight, unqualified promised--that if
she would do it she should go free from captivity.

She stood stunned and speechless a moment; then she remembered, with
such solacement as the thought could furnish, that by another clear
promise made by Cauchon himself--she would at least be the Church's
captive, and have women about her in place of a brutal foreign soldiery.
So she turned to the body of priests and said, with a sad resignation:

"Now, you men of the Church, take me to your prison, and leave me no
longer in the hands of the English"; and she gathered up her chains and
prepared to move.

But alas! now came these shameful words from Cauchon--and with them a
mocking laugh:

"Take her to the prison whence she came!"

Poor abused girl! She stood dumb, smitten, paralyzed. It was pitiful to
see. She had been beguiled, lied to, betrayed; she saw it all now.

The rumbling of a