Count. May I not speak to thee?
I would not give thee pain, no, not in thought.
I knew thee brave, so brave I feared thy name,
And never had I dared to venture near thee;
But now to see thee thus, so sweet, so gentle,
I feel as if some silver chord had linked
Our hearts together, and would claim thee sister.
And thou canst weep!
Joan. Tears are woman's birthright,
Starting to her relief in joy or sorrow.
I thought myself abhorred, cast off by all,
And I have found a friend, midst all unchanged,
And sweeter still—compassion in my sex.
Count. Thou must not, shall not die. I'll to my Warwick.
Joan. It is in vain, and the swift moments fly.
Lady, leave me. I must be calm in death,
Lest nature's weakness make my foes to triumph.
The blessing of a spirit thou hast soothed
Gild thy bright path and cheer thy parting hour.
Farewell, for ever.
Count. No; Du Nois, Warwick,
Shall save thee yet.
[Exit.
Joan. Alas! hope cheats me not.
My hour is come, and I content to die.
It was a trying hour; for hard it is
To measure back our steps to life, when we
Have almost knocked at death's grim portals.
One tear for thee, Du Nois, the last I shed.
One prayer for thee, my country and my king.
My king! a princely diadem is his,
And mine this murky dungeon and these chains:
Yet have I placed him there—and mine
The hand that stemmed his fortune's tide, and broke
The fetters that enslaved the land.
Enough. The bitterness of death, is past.
That thought has robbed the flames of all their terrors.
Farewell to earth! farewell to earthly ties!
When next I think of him, of thee, my country,
Then will eternity have set its impress
Upon remembrance.
Scene VII.—Street in Rouen.
Officer. Soldiers.