Another part of the Street in front of the Prison.
Enter Spectators.
First Spectator. What crowds collect! each avenue is filled,
And every street appears a solid mass:
E'en to the topmost ridge each house is crammed
With earnest gazers; not an eye but turns
Towards the black prison-walls; yet 'tis an hour
Ere the gates open for the sad procession.
Are scenes of death and agony so pleasant
That such a throng of eager witnesses
Should press to view them?
Second Spec. Such a death is new,
And thoughts of men are differently moved.
Some deem the maid condemned a tool of hell,
And some a chosen instrument of Heaven.
Fain would they see which will assert its claim;
Whether the fiend will leave her to her fate,
Or some great miracle be worked to save her.
Enter several of Du Nois' Friends.
First Voice. What sound is that?
Second Voice. It is the abbey bell.
None can mistake its toll.
Third Voice. It cannot be;
'Tis not the hour.
Enter Xaintrailles.
Xaint. The governor suspecting
Treason perchance, or some attempt at rescue,
Has changed both hour and route. The walls are manned,
And every part is thronged with bristling spears.