Yet not _so_ to
escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before he dies. In the
forests to which he prays for pity, will he find a respite? What a
tumult, what a gathering of feet is there! In glades where only wild
deer should run armies and nations are assembling; towering in the
fluctuating crowd are phantoms that belong to departed hours. There is
the great English Prince, Regent of France. There is my Lord of
Winchester, the princely cardinal, that died and made no sign. There is
the bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What
building is that which hands so rapid are raising? Is it a martyr's
scaffold? Will they burn the child of Domremy a second time? No; it is
a tribunal that rises to the clouds; and two nations stand around it,
waiting for a trial. Shall my Lord of Beauvais sit again upon the
judgment-seat, and again number the hours for the innocent? Ah, no! he
is the prisoner at the bar. Already all is waiting: the mighty audience
is gathered, the Court is hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are
arrayed, the trumpets are sounding, the judge is taking his place. Oh,
but this is sudden! My lord, have you no counsel? "Counsel I have none;
in heaven above, or on earth beneath, counsellor there is none now that
would take a brief from _me_: all are silent." Is it, indeed, come to
this? Alas! the time is short, the tumult is wondrous, the crowd
stretches away into infinity; but yet I will search in it for somebody
to take your brief; I know of somebody that will be your counsel.
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