The two executioners descend from the platform of the pyre; the monk administers to Joan Darc the supreme consolations.
Suddenly a dry and lively crackling is heard from the base of the pyre, followed by puffs of smoke and thin tongues of flame.
"Father!" cries Joan Darc anxiously, "descend! Descend quickly! The pyre is on fire!"
Such is the sublime adieu of the victim to one of her judges!
The monk descends precipitately, casting an angry look at the executioners. These light the pyre at several places. Volumes of black smoke rise upward, and envelop Joan Darc from the public gaze. The fire glistens; it runs and twines itself through the lower layers of the fagots; presently the pile is all on fire; the flames rise; they are fanned by the breeze that blows away the cloud of smoke, and Joan Darc is again exposed to view. The fire reaches the straw and twigs on top of the platform on which her feet rest. Her gown begins to smoke. Firmly held by the triple iron bands that clasp her neck, waist and feet, she writhes and utters a piercing cry:
"Water! Water!"
A second later, as if regretting the vain appeal for mercy that pain drew from her, she exclaims:
At that moment Joan Darc's gown takes fire and the flames that flare up from it join the hundred other lambent tongues that shoot upward. From the midst of the tall furnace a voice in a weird accent is heard to exclaim:
"JESUS!"