University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Sunset. The Courtyard of a Hostel. Buildings on each side. The background, towards which a court is open, is formed of a landscape, in which are visible the fairy oak, a tree of large proportions, grotesquely wreathed, and a ruined chapel. On one side of the buildings are sheds for cattle.
Enter Raimond, and two or three Peasants, R.
Rai.

Here, say you?

1st. Peasant (Colbert)

Yes, I'm sure I saw him steal by
these buildings, about this time last night.

2nd. Peasant (Gravelle)

Then 'tis like if we watch half
an hour he may come forth again.

Col.

Let's search for him—let's drag him forth; this
Englishman. I owe him a death for my poor murdered
father's sake!

Gra.

But one relation lost to urge your vengeance! The
invaders have reft me of all; from a man with kin and
friends around me, I stand a solitary ruined outcast!

Rai.

Who among us but owns such wrongs! Tush! they
are the burden of every tongue. Fire, famine, and the sword
are all that labour now in our hapless land, and desolation is
their harvest; the dead lie unburied, for they outnumber the
living! Curses on the tyrants that drive their hirelings on to
slaughter the innocent—Yes, let us search my friends,
there will be one devastating fiend the less on earth if we
slay one of Isabel's warhounds.

Col.

Search all round—you that way.

Rai.

I heard something stir here—the door is fast (trying

the door of the stables or cattle sheds.)
your mattock Gravelle

—Colbert, your staff to wrench it from its hinge! The
invader shall die!

(As they are forcing down the door, Joan enters from the back, carrying buckets of water.
Joan.

Why, how now, masters!—would you rob me of
my young lambs, sheltered here? Why ye are as fearful
plunderers as the English!

Rai.

It is one of these plunderers we seek,—this Englishman.

Joan.

You seek him here?

Rai.

Pardon dear girl. It would be mine to guard you
and yours from wrong, but Colbert has seen him.

Joan.

Seen him!

Col.

Aye, last night—let's search. Down with the door!

Joan.

Stay friends, that is my charge. It is not my will
that you shall enter there!

Col.

What would you save?—

Joan.

I will guard my own committed trust, and I can
do so without your aid.

Col.

Will you tell us then? Do you know anything?

Rai.

Nay, tax her not with such foul treason! She harbour
an Englishman! why, a maiden of France would as soon
shelter a wolf in her lambfold! And do you suspect her?
her whose prayers and hopes have cheered you when all
else was terror? You have the key Joan?

Joan.

I have!

Rai.

And you know all that is within?

Joa.

I do!

Col.

She may be mistaken—I will go on!

Gra.

Down with the door if she will not open it.

Rai.

Mark ye, my masters, if you dream of force against
her, you have me to encounter. You don't expect me to
stand by and see the girl I adore ill-treated, because you
suspect that an Englishman has glided like a spirit through
the keyhole? Why, has she not the key? has she not told
you? Come, come, women have wilful ways! If you had
asked her, she would have let you pass; but now—well—
well—away with you, and we'll make better search for this
spirit. (He gets them away a little.)
Joan, you are not anger'd
with me?

Joan.

Oh, no, no, you are ever kind—ever—Raimond.

Rai.

Bless you for that smile, they shall not vex you.
Come this way, Colbert, come, Gravelle, let us away to the
road, and watch; he cannot escape if we post ourselves
upon the hillock, I warrant me. Forgive me, Joan, good
even.

[Exit with Gravelle and Colbert, R.
Joan.

Frank, noble Raimond! Indeed, you merit all
the love 'tis woman's to bestow; but my heart can never be
for thee. It is given entirely—fatally! Till I saw Lionel,
I thought only on the wrongs of my poor country, they
were my nightly dream, my daily vision! Ah, is it a
wonder that they should be so? is not the reality around
me in every horror war can perpetrate? France, have I not
prayed for thee? Peace, have I not wept for thee? And
yet—he!—Oh, does not mercy point the road to peace? Is
it not vengeance that desolates our country? They are
gone!—No one sees!—He must be gone too!—begone,
for ever! and I must send him hence! It must be!
(Opens the door.)
Lionel, come forth, Lionel!

Enter Lionel from the stable L, his appearance is somewhat worn and haggard.

Alas! alas! to part with thee now, when thou need'st more
tending yet. I hoped to see full health glow on thy cheek
again, and thanks sparkle from unclouded eyes; but we
must do our duty without the grudging hope of reward.
Your hiding is at length discovered, you must instantly begone!

Lionel.

But not unmindful of your reward! Dear,
generous girl, name what reward an English noble can pay,
and it is yours; earned, not given. Have you not saved my
life at the peril of your own, tended me many, many days,
with hourly care, healed the wounds that no less than
woman's pity could have staid from being mortal to me?
Name the worth of an earldom.

Joan.

An earldom! No, go, and show like mercy to
my countrymen.

Lion.

I am the sworn soldier of my King!

Joan,

And I should be your foe! but we will not dispute
this. Be merciful, Lionel, if you think you owe me
aught. It is all that I may ask of you; for you must begone
now, they are searching for you, and their revenge is
not satisfied with death, the road is clear if you pass yonder,

they have not thought of that; hate thinks not so
keenly as—as friendship! Go at once!

Lion.

Even thus? almost without a word? If it must
be, farewell, yet remember, Joan, that should the English
ever offer harm to you, or yours, call on the name of Lionel,
demand of them to see me if I were at my prayers; and
you shall find that for your sake I can and will save!

Joan.

You are yet weak?

Lion.

Strong enough to make an effort for safety. Joan,
heaven send the day that I may shew thee that English
hearts are grateful!

[Exit R.
Joan.

I have been very weak! yet could I watch by him,
could I sit there and see the life return and know I gave it
—know too that it might cost my own? Hear the faint
murmur of his thanks in fevered sleep—be all to him,
friend, nurse, defender—could I do this and not love? But
he is gone! He has passed safely!—they do not see him!
No, he is gone!—he is safe!—Oh, heaven, have I deserved
to be thus miserable? Can I not rejoice that he is safe?
Oh, he is gone for ever! But he is safe! I will be!—I am
—I am happy! I had forgotten my task. (Goes C. to take up

her buckets but stands listlessly by them.)

Enter Thibaut, R. bearing Madelon, her hair is dishevelled and her dress bloodstained.
Thi.
(C)

Joan, Joan, art deaf or idiot! Look to thy sister!

Joan.
(Starting on seeing her.)

Madelon!

Thi.

Does she breathe still, or have they slain her too?

Joan.

No, no, father, she lives! Madelon, my Madelon!
Who has done this?

Thi.

The English! need you ask? She is not dead!

Joan.

No, no! The English!

Thi.

Poor wretch! perhaps, 'twere better she were dead.
It would be better all of us were dead! that something
universal as the deluge should sweep us all away, than
thus to die daily with those around us. He is murdered!

Joan)

He, father!—Who?

Thi.

Her husband! her's, your sister's husband! One
that I've called son—you brother! They have murdered
him!

Joan.

They?

Thi.

Would you ask again—the invaders! It is her
husband's blood that she is dyed with.

Joan.

Heaven have mercy!

Thi.

Mercy! Call aloud for curses, girl, for they are now
our only prayers; for deepest curses, the blighting lightning,
and the storm of fire, earthquake, and pestilence,
and worse than all, man's cruelty! let's pray that they
may fall on them; and all that love them, that they love—

Joan.

Madelon!

Thi.

Do not wake her—bear her in! Here you, Louise!
Louise, I say, is she lost too? Louise!

Enter Louise.

Look here, and don't stand wondering, like Joan, but
bear in Madelon! (To Joan.)
Don't touch her, since
you're grown so dull, Louise shall tend her, do you hear?
Leave her alone.

Louise bears in Madelon, R. Joan stands with her hands clasped and her eyes raised to Heaven, C.
Aye, you were won't in dreams to pray for France,
And to see hope in visions—idle, weak thing,
Cannot you curse? Cannot you call for vengeance?
Dull dreamer! Hear, and rise with me to curses!
Marauding soldiers, hunting for their chief,
Beheld her beauty—do you wish to hear
From me, her father, what it shames a man
To speak? They seized on her, poor Claude came up,
They slew him! and his last groan was pour'd forth
For his wife's shame—his wife, your sister, Joan!
Can you not curse? (Looks at her tenderly.)
Girl, girl, how deadly pale!
And you weep now. Joan, I have wronged you, Joan!
Oh, Joan! my children, Joan! my son and daughter!
(They sink into each others arms, after a moment he starts up)
Will you not curse with me?

Joan.
Heaven! Heaven! have pity!

Enter Raimond R. his sword drawn and bleeding.
Rai.
They have escaped!

Thi.
Why need you tell me that?
All who do evil 'scape, the innocent fall
Like leaves in autumn—

Joan.
Father!

Thi.
Silence, Joan!
Anguish must howl, or burst the heart that holds it.

Rai.
We clave down two of them, the rest were yielding,
When the pale man, that Colbert saw last night,
Came up with us, he snatched a sword from one,
Held us at bay, and made good their retreat.
While as they went they shouted “Lionel!”

Joan.
(R)
Lionel!

Rai.
Lionel! the man we sought.

Joan.
He sav'd them—sav'd the murderers: Lionel!

Rai.
Aye!

Thi.
He sav'd them! sav'd them, Joan!
Can you not hate? Can you not call for vengeance
On him?

Joan.
Forgive me, and forbear me, father!
I am not unduteous—I am not dull!
I am not unfeeling—I am not, my father!
Let me to Agnes' shrine!

Thi.
(L)
To dream anew!

Joan.
Father! It is not always by the strong
The victory comes. I know not what I am;
Impulses rise within me—new and strange,
And uncontroulable. Father, dear father!
'Tis not that my brain's wreck'd, for never held it
So much of thought. I know my duty, father!
I can breathe prayers, and they are for my country—
Alone for it! I have no other thought,
I can hope the destruction of the spoiler,
And yet it scarcely seems a mortal hope:
I feel a minister of solemn wrath.
In my poor sister's fate, and in Claude's death;
And in your agony I see all France,
For thousands weep, as we are weeping father!
I will not curse! I will strive not to feel!
But I will pray to smite!

(She is going L.)
Rai.
She goes to the shrine.

Joan
(Returns, R. and kneels.)
Bless me, my father! do not think me wayward!
Oh, love me father! What are home and country
But kindred's love, and parents' fondness—bless me!
For these are France to me, although they bid me
Devote myself for France: and do not doubt me,
For the strong suffering strikes out strong deeds,
As the hard trampling of the barbed horse
Beats fire from dullest stones. I suffer, father!
And I will do!—bless me!

Thi.
I bless thee, Joan!

MUSIC.—She rises and goes steadily towards St. Agnes shrine, L. Thibaut and Raimond go silently into the house R.

SCENE II.

—The Ruined Chapel of St. Agnes—Moonlight. At the back of the scene a large window is left standing; on the pillars, and the statue of St. Agnes on the L., the light falls vividly, a broken flat tomb, R. in front.
Joan enters at the L.U.E. and gradually comes forward.
Joan.
I us'd to find peace here—'tis fled from all,
The world is one wide wreck! I will not think
Of what has been. I have lov'd! and he I lov'd
Abets my brother's murder!—Guards the spoilers
Of my own sister. I am an accomplice
In all! I spar'd!—I sav'd him! There are things
To show whom mercy is a wicked cruelty—
The snake, the wolf, the man who trades in blood,
There's but one word for “Kill!” they but tempt Heav'n
Who spare them. There are spectres in my eyes,
That will not leave them. Darkness, or the light,
Open, or clos'd, there is the bleeding Claude,
And there the pale, sham'd, silent Madelon.
How can I sear this horror from my heart?
What offering of life, or more than life,
Can pluck the guilt out? Oh, that by this hand,
Weak, but devoted by my soul, the sword
Of vengeance and protection might be wielded
To guard the future, and revenge the past,
How gladly would I grasp on martyrdom,
And own no thought, no hope, no pain, no fear,
But for my righteous task. Oh, that my will
Could pluck down power, thought it crush'd myself,
To exterminate the invaders!
(Joan returns to C.)
(A very low sweet organ peal is heard.)
Strange! and yet
I have dreamed so sometimes, when I could scarce
Distinguish truth from fancy.
(It swells and then dies away.)
Is it gone?
I could weep, for it, 'twas so beautiful!
[She kneels before the statue.
Oh, do not leave me, holy, happy thoughts
Which these sounds brought to me. Here have I knelt
Before, and found sweet answers to my prayer;
Be gracious, holy Agnes, to me now.

(She falls asleep, the moon becomes obscured. A voice is heard from the statue.)
Voice.
Maiden, the prayer thou hast preferred,
Is by supernal powers heard;
I can thy inmost wishes see,
Thy thoughts shall answer be to me.
Thou shalt have all that thou dost ask,
If thou dar'st accept the task;
Devoting all thou hast and art,
Even the weakness of thy heart.
High spirits wait on thy command,
All power is thine to save the land;
But if for thine own selfish ends,
Thou usest that which Heaven lends;
Thy glory shall depart, thy soul
Fall under evil powers' controul;
Thy country perish in the strife,
Unless 'tis ransom'd with thy life.
(A few sustained notes on the organ.)
I read thy heart—the means, behold!

The arched window becomes transparent and behind it is presented a Tableau vivant of the King's court, with Joan led in by Dunois.
Chorus
invisible.
Maiden! fear not! the bravest knight shall bring
Thee and thy cause before thy country's king.

(The Tableau dissolves.)
Voice.
Thy arms, the banner thou'lt unfold,
Shall to thy sight now present be;
The sword, which pictur'd thou wilt see
Command be taken from a cell,
In which the mouldering buried dwell,
Beneath St. Katharine's altar stone,
Nor shall the sword be there alone.
As tokens they to thee are given,
Thy country's fetters shall be riven,
And every friend and every foe,
Thee for her great avenger know.
See Orleans, Charles's hope and tower,
From England rescued by thy power.

The Second tableau. Joan on her coal-black horse before the burning forts raised against Orleans.
Chorus.
Hail to thee, maiden. Hail!
These shall thy triumphs be.
Hail to thee, maiden. Hail,
All shall thy glory see!

Statue.
Now to thy grateful country's praise,
Maiden, thy rapt senses raise!
Behold the holiest festival;
The land redeem'd from foreign thrall
By thee: behold thy great reward.
Chosen upon her sovereign lord
To place the French imperial crown.
Behold and joy the unmatch'd renown.

Third Tableau. The Coronation of Charles by Joan in the Cathedral of Rheims.
Chorus
invisible.
Maiden behold thy native country free!
Next heav'n, thy king shall hold his crown from thee.

The chorus dies away. The tableau dissolves, the organ peal is heard while the moon shines out upon the pillars and statue, and all resumes the appearance of the scene as at its opening.
Joan.
(Rushing from her sleep.)
I accept, I claim the task! Twas no mere dream!
I feel the strong assurance in my soul—
I am not as I was—the immortal sights
Have made me part of them! Spirits of the slain,
Rejoice ye, for I come in vengeance arm'd
With power to chase your murderers from the land.
The glow of battle circles in my veins,
Eternal Heavens! I am your instrument!
Up France and strike—I bring deliverance!

[Exit L.

SCENE III.

—The hall of the Monastery of Fierboys. An arch, through which is seen the church of St. Katharine, a noble, cathedral-like structure, nearly filling the space. Banners of France, suits of armour, &c., hanging on the walls, within the arch, indicate a royal residence near the seat of war.
Enter Montfort. Arnaud meets him R.
Mont.
Where is the King?

Arn.
He is dismounting.

Mont.
Thanks!
Will he come hither?

Arn.
Yes, he'll pass this hall.

Mont.
He must not pass till I have speech with him.

Attendants enter R. and L. and range themselves, then Charles's officers, from the arch R., lastly The King, with La Hire, Abbot, &c.
Charles.
Tell me no more La Hire, mine ears are drunken
With the bad tidings. Henry crown'd in Paris!
My cousin Burgundy, the crown's first vassal
Desert me in my need!

La Hire.
That's scarce the worst!
Your mother, sire, the Queen.

Charles.
She too, repels me!

La Hire.
With open mocks against you I beheld her
Seat your young rival on your throne!

Charles.
No more!
Even nature war against us in the breast,
That cradled our young life. The hate she bore
My father, now with more unnatural aim
Strikes me, his son and her's!

Mont.
Sire, grant me speech with you
I come from Orleans.

Charles.
Orleans!

Mont.
(Kneeling L.)
Send us succour
We crave it sire, as men in our extremity.
It is by miracle I've pass'd the walls,
Built by the English to encircle us;
Which have long barr'd us both from help and food,
So that if hearts be firm while yet they beat,
By very famine must the English conquer,
For our gaunt warriors drop down in the streets,
And all that we can do to hold the town,
Is that the English find us dead within it.

Charles.
Mother of mercy, this is pitiful!
Orleans! the best stay of my cause! Where's Xantrailles?
Can he not beat them back?

Mont.
He's dead, my liege!

Charles.
Aye, brave men ever snatch the shield of death,
To cover them from shame. Would I could die
To save my people, or forget their wrongs.
My all upon this chance! Where are my Scotch,
The brave Earl Douglas and his followers?

Arn.
My liege, his bands have mutinied for pay,
And the brave Earl is powerless to help you.

Charles.
Shall I not find men even to see me die?
You hear your answer.

Mont.
We must yield the town!

(He retires slowly.)
Charles.
And so I yield my kingdom. I'll not ask
Of them, or any to shed more blood for me.
(Takes off his crown.)
Here is my crown, the last wealth I have left,
I have no longer need of such a bauble,
Part here among you gold and gems, and so
I have given all. Dunois!

(Seeing him.)
Enter Dunois, L.C.
Dun.
My gracious liege!

Charles.
Strange! you speak cheerly! Welcome! cousin, welcome!

Dun.
I bring you tidings worthy of a welcome;
A maid, commissioned by no earthly power,
Demands that she be brought before her King,
Herald of weal and safety to the land.
Of terror and swift vengeance to its foes.

Charles.
We cannot jest, the realm is lost, Pray spare us
Unseasonable mirth.

Dun.
Believe and triumph;
Refuse and fall indeed.

Charles.
Your speek is earnest,
What proof hath won your credence?

Dun.
I look'd on her.
And saw high purpose brightening on her brow,
Such as no human mission ever bore.
Already from her looks have foemen fled,
Herself unarm'd, unaided, and the people
Throng round her, shout and call her prophetess
And bring her hither with loud songs of triumph.

Charles.
If she bear mission more than mortal to us
She will know to whom to bear it; if she err
The imposture is declared.

The first chorus in the vision is heard. The King places La Hire upon a seat which is brought in by two attendants, he then takes his station in the crowd of followers. Dunois goes and returns with Joan, R.
Joan.
That sound speaks certainty. It all shall happen
As it hath been foretold. (Sees La Hire.)
Dare you sit there?
To mock the solemn embassy I bear?
Dare you encounter all the wrath I bring?
(La Hire involuntarily rises, and quits the place.)
To vindicate my mission? King! your throne!
Nor meet with idle dalliance the fate
That speaks to you in me? Put on your crown,
For crowned I beheld you.
The King replacing his crown, resumes his seat, and then all arranging themselves in a very different manner from before, form the first Tableau of the vision. Joan kneels at The King's feet.
King! all hail!

(General acclamation.)
Dun.
Most happy omen!

Charles.
You have seen me then?

Joan.
I've never left till now my native fields
Where you have never been, at Dom Remi,
Yet have I seen you; and to look upon you.
Assures me of the truth of all to come.

Charles.
What art thou?

Joan.
But an humble village girl
That liv'd by tending on my father's sheep.

Abbot.
Can such a one work wonders, and restore
With power supernal the estate of France?

Joan.
Lord, Abbot, you should know that oft humility
Is chosen to confound the proud.

Abbot.
If so
Give, us a sign and proof of such high calling.

Joan.
Look round you. See, the land is desolate;
Fire and the sword make earth the reign of hell!
Need you another sign?

Abbot.
For the pretence
Of inspiration.

Joan.
The pretence: Lord Abbot!
I came as doth the fresh wind, when the pestilence
Stagnates all life; to do the high behests,
Which are my nature, and which are no more
My own will, than that wind's, when it restores
Health to the sick. I come with no pretence
But my devotion to my task.

Charles.
She answers
Firmly.

Dun.
And truly.

Joan.
Pause you yet for signs?
Are they not in your hearts and sufferings?
Is there one here whose blood cries not on murder
Of some dear friend, of parent or of child?
And he is happy if the butchery
Hath struck no deeper? Are these bloods so tame,
That all the shames your sisters, children, wives,
Have suffer'd, dooming them to living death,
Will let you pause, and calmly ask for signs?
Such murder have I seen, and such worse cruelty
And I, a woman, sate not tamely down
To wring my hands, but pray'd and arm'd for vengeance,
Wrestled with wishes, till my hopes were signs,
My miseries signs, anguish'd remorse a sign,
And all the agonies that man appeals with,
To heaven, the cry of blood, unerring signs
That vengeance should be granted!

Dun.
Wherefore pause we?

Joan.
You are wise to palter, when you stake so deeply!
Nobles of France, which of you hath a rood
Of land, or a poor vassal if the English,
Strike but another blow? Are ye not beaten
Till even honour turns her back on you
And cries “Shame,” to the chivalry of France?
Ask of your fathers' bones within their tombs
A sign! and the grim spectres shall rise up
And shout to you “Your house's infamy,”
Where not a man unbeaten, or a maid
Unstain'd, survives to bear that house's name.
Yes, Knights of France, you've time to pause for signs!

Dun.
My liege—my friends!

Arn.
For France! let our swords answer!

Joan.
(Kneels,)
King! by the glory of thy crown, cast down
And trampled on the earth, by all the mockeries
That now await thee from insulting foes,
By the cold life imprisonment they doom thee—
By thy long line extinguish'd and forgotten—
By all the curses which thy people pour
On him who swore to guard them, yet betrays them
And as thou'lt answer to the highest crown—
In heaven's and thy country's cause, send forth
Her sons to victory!

All.
To victory!

(All strike their swords on their shields)
Joan
(C)
Hear—hear ye that! ye who demand a sign,
Look on each eye, behold each swelling breast—
List to the thrilling shout, and take the deeds
That wait on such inspirings for your sign!

Charles
Take thou this sword, the constable of France,
Resign'd it but this morn—and now I place it
In thy more worthy hand.

Joan
Not so my liege!
Go to St. Katharine's church—dig up the stone
Before the altar, thence bring sword and armour.
On the sword blade three fleur-de-lis are graven;
These only must I bear!

Abbot,
That altar stone
This morning hath been mov'd—the arms there found
Are here by my command. Maiden, go forth
And conquer, for thou speakest truth.

(The sword and armour are brought by his attendants to her.)
Joan
Enough.
Who here will bear a letter to the citizens
Of Orleans, that when they behold our banner
And hear our onset cry, they sally forth.
(Raimond advances from the throng.)
Thou!

Rai.
(L.C,)
I! I came to follow all thy fortunes
Though I may not partake them.

Joan
(R.e.)
Thou!—Yet be it so—
The best, and thou art one—are sacrifices
Fit for our freedom's altar. Be the letter
Written and given to him. 'Tis thy life
Thou put'st in peril.

Rai.
I know well its danger—
I am prepared, even were the worst assured.

Joan
Such are the hearts we want, for where such are,
Freedom and peace, glory, security,
Never desert the land. Give me my arms,
Then all that love their land, their king, their homes,
Follow to Orleans! Follow me, and turn not,
Till you behold me turn!—Follow to Orleans!

(Chorus. The white banner described in the second vision is brought. Joan receives it with recognition and reverence, she wahes it, and all rush off following her, C)

SCENE IV.

—The ground between Orleans and the English lines. On the right extending into the half distance a section of the wall, erected by the besiegers, and strengthened by forts at intervals. On the left the gates of the town. Over the walls on the right are seen the English tents, and the distant hills. The respective flags float from the battlements.
Enter Talbot and Lionel R. with English troops, receiving The Queen, with her attendants and forces.
Tal.
Your Majesty is come in happy time
To see the town of Orleans rendered up.
Safe are you here some minutes by the truce,
But when the bell tolls for the even song,
The dire assault of war once more begins,
Unless their lives be yielded to our mercy.

Isa.
(C)
You know what mercy, lords, to shew to traitors,
Let them ask mercy of your soldiery,
Smarting with wounds, and heated by their toil,
And let their wrath reply.

Lion.
Madam, in pity—

Isa.
(R.)
Pity! but you are young, and beardless boys,
Have thoughts like smooth-cheeked maidens.

Lion.
Gracious madam,
My sword hath not been wielded to deserve
A taunt.

Isa.
Then let your heart be tempered like it.

Tal.
Rouen and Caen, and many a town have felt,
That vengeance stays not while it finds a foe
Alive to suffer, and so perish all
Within this Orleans!

Isa.
All the town shall be
Their charnel-house, and our hate's monument,
Nor can the poor slaves satisfy the loathing,
My son inherits from the idiot father,
Into whose arms my treacherous fortune thrust me.
Open yon gate. (The Fort.)
Shew ye the deeds of men,
Or I'll return and shame you with a woman's

Tal.
Double the sentinels, that not one chance
Of an escape be left them. I'll not spare
A man of them.

Sentinels are placed by the English line. Isabel, Salisbury, and all the party retire L. to the forts, leaving Raimond, who entered in The Queen's train.
Rai.
The truce will end, our friends will hopeless yield,
These watch, how can I speed the letter?

Sent.
Friend,
To stay here is a post of danger, soon
The bell will toll, and then the first are sure
To meet with fatal blows,

Rai.
A man must do
His duty, and for that he must not care
What dangers wait on it.

Sent.
Well! take your chance.

Rai.
Are you a marksman? I would wager now
I'd hit the pinnacle of yonder tower.

Sent.
'Tis truce, you must not shoot into the town,
Soon you'll have need enough for all your arrows.

Rai.
Only in sport. This arrow's blunt, look here.
(Fires)
I've miss'd, I'll try again.

Sent.
(Turning on his beat.)
Peace! Thoughtless boy,
No more of this; you must learn dicipline

Rai.
Now for the letter? (Fixes it on his arrow.)
Speed Thou hope of France!

Sent.
I bid thee not to shoot.

2nd. Sent.
(From the English walls.)
He fixed a paper,
To his last arrow. I'll call up the captains,
This is a traitor.

(Disappears from the wall.)
Sent.
Ha! is that the sport?
You'll yield your life still sooner than I thought.

Rai.
Why now, I cannot yield my life too soon,
For its last use is sped.

Talbot, Lionel, and some English re-enter, R.
Tal.
A spy! an emissary! how now, sirrah!—
How came you hither?

Rai.
With the Queen!

Tal.
The Queen,
Where are her captains? Say what leader knows thee
Whom dost thou serve? Speak!

Rai.
France.

2nd. Sent.
I saw him fix
A letter to his arrow, which he shot
Yonder into the town.

Tal.
Thou art a traitor,
Thou did'st not shoot him dead e'er he could fire it,
Sirrah, we'll place thee as a mark against
Yon walls, and many a wound shall bring thee torment,
Ere death release thee, if thou tell us not,
All thou hast done, and wherefore, and the tidings
Thou'st sped into the town.

Rai.
Lead me to death—
Or to the torture that may make me hope it,
And be my sufferings the first sacrifice
For my regenerate country. Know I've sped
Intelligence of vengeance swift and terrible,
Ready to burst on tyrants. (Thunder.)
Listen lord,
To this type of an iron storm. Ah love!
I perish for thee gladly! France farewell!
Thou wilt be happy, but thou hast no joy
For me to share—'tis fit that I should die.
Lead on!

Lion.
Poor youth!

Ria.
Your queen, your friends will mock you
And I ask not compassion. I would cast
Burthensome life away, and you make death
A triumph. On! (Bell tolls.)


Tal.
To arms! the truce is ended!
Sound parley to the walls.
(Trumpet sounds, Citizens appear in armour on the wall.)
Now, yield ye, villains,
To your liege lord, and proffer him your lives,
Or perish in the assault ye cannot stem.

Citizen.
We will not yield, famine or sword may slay us,
But we'll die true to France, and to our king!

Tal.
Behold the fate that waits on each of you,
Bind him, and draw your bows, and shew your skill
To eke out life in torments. (Distant shouts to L.)
Ho! to arms!
They bring more Frenchmen to our willing swords!

Battle—Second Tableau of Vision.