I, on the contrary, throw the onus of
the argument not on presumable tendencies of nature, but on the known
facts of that morning's execution, as recorded by multitudes. What
else, I demand, than mere weight of metal, absolute nobility of
deportment, broke the vast line of battle then arrayed against her?
What else but her meek, saintly demeanour won, from the enemies that
till now had believed her a witch, tears of rapturous admiration? "Ten
thousand men," says M. Michelet himself--"ten thousand men wept"; and
of these ten thousand the majority were political enemies knitted
together by cords of superstition. What else was it but her constancy,
united with her angelic gentleness, that drove the fanatic English
soldier--who had sworn to throw a fagot on her scaffold as _his_
tribute of abhorrence, that _did_ so, that fulfilled his vow--
suddenly to turn away a penitent for life, saying everywhere that he
had seen a dove rising upon wings to heaven from the ashes where she
had stood? What else drove the executioner to kneel at every shrine for
pardon to _his_ share in the tragedy? And, if all this were
insufficient, then I cite the closing act of her life as valid on her
behalf, were all other testimonies against her. The executioner had
been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. The fiery smoke
rose upward in billowing volumes.
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