Beau. Think'st thus to die?
More weighty crimes deserve more weighty punishment.
Whence this boldness, unnat'ral to thy sex?
Whence but in strength of some infernal spell,
Of the foul prompting of some lying fiend?
Remember thy connexion with the hag
Who fell on Compeigne's field, men's awe of thee—
Confess the truth—declare what witchery used.
Joan. What witchery used! the witchery which a mind,
Bent on one single project, can exert,
When fitting opportunity doth meet
The master-passion which has fed its fires:
That witchery, harsh man and most unjust,
By which insulted virtue makes thee crouch,
As now thou dost, beneath a prisoner's eye,
Though deemed forsaken and alone.
Bed. No more!
Thou dost but aggravate the guilt too clear.
Hear thy dread sentence, and prepare to meet it—
Convicted of the cursed crime of witchcraft,
Thou diest at noon to-morrow.
Beau. This subdues her.
The blood has left her cheek, and as a statue,
Transfixed, she stands. One might dispute she breathed
But for her quivering lip. See! she would speak,
But the words die.
Joan. The bitter cup is full!
Believed a reprobate and leagued with hell,
My name, my memory held in destestation!
Die as accursed of Heaven! (to Beau.) 'Tis false! most false!
And on thy head a deeper crime shall rest,
Than this so foul thou lay'st to me—the weight
Of guiltless blood. Thou mays't condemn me here;
But think, once more before the judgment-seat
Of Him who all shall judge, we must again
Each other meet. How wilt thou meet me there?
This charge unjust shall scathe thy shudd'ring soul,
And sight of me shall blast thy hopes of heaven.
Prince, thou'rt of gallant race.
Bed. I'll hear no more.
Joan. Oh! there are those who on this hour will think
With bitterness, when princely honour goads,
And noblest blood proves no defence.
Beau. (to Bed.) She threatens!
Beware lest some malign, some fatal influence—
Joan. Blind Man! the dumb e'en now have found a voice
To curb injustice. The poor worm itself
Will, by its very writhings, plead its wrongs,
And show the cruelty of him that crushed it.
Oh! not for life I plead—death hath no terror,
Existence scarce one charm to cheat my eyes.
Grant me the doom thou threat'st—nor passing sigh,
Nor murmur shall escape me; but to die
On this most monstrous charge! I kneel to thee
And thus would stir the soldier in thy breast,
The patriot, the upright man, if not the judge.
[Kneels to Bedford.