Scene III.—Camp.
Du Nois. Xaintrailles.
Du N. There is a magic
In the full sweet tones of her impressive voice,
Which heard but once, dwells long upon the ear,
Charmed with the sound; then sinks into the heart,
No more to be forgotten, pleading still
When she herself is mute. How goes the hour?
Xaint. Day's harbinger, with chilly lips, has kissed
The pine's tall top. The camp is locked in sleep
So deep, that yon marauding fox's step
Distinctly may be heard.
Du N. Sleep flies my lids—
For the first time I dread to-morrow's chance.
The attempt is bold, and skilfully conceived,
On Suffolk's ranks to fall, and break his force
Ere Talbot can arrive and strength unite;
But if the project fail!—(Aside,) I cannot think
Of her disgraced, without a pang.
Xaint. Should fail!
Who fears defeat in what the maid devises?
Du N. Heaven doth not always smile on those he loves.
Time offers marvels: once the name of Joan
I scorned, abhorred! I do not hate it now,
Though now I've cause. She robs me of renown,
And at her bidding I unsheath my sword.
Xaint. She may be proud!—a victory she has won,
That spirit to subdue. She hath in truth
A charm to make stern hearts most meek, and yet
She is not beautiful, as men count beauty.
Du N. She is the better suited to my taste;
I do despise the doll, where nought of soul
Is ever seen to light the faultless eye.
Xaint. Yet glances have been cast on thee
Which might have thawed the coldest heart, and caused
An angry lance to tremble in its rest.