After such deep and manifold humiliations, Joan might well have been strengthened in spirit as she stood on the ramparts of Melun on a certain day in Easter week. Among the many pictures of her, I like to conjure up this one; to see her standing there, leaning on her lance (she was on sentry duty), looking out toward that "Isle of France" on whose edge she now stood; no "isle" in reality, but the quaintly-named province whose heart was Paris. I can see her uplifted look, her kindling eyes, can almost hear the deep-drawn breath of high resolve and dedication.
And then the blow fell.
She had always known that her time was short, that she had been given little more than a year to fulfill her task; knew moreover, only too bitterly well, how much of the short time had been frittered away in spite of all her efforts; yet she had hoped against hope that she might be permitted to finish her allotted task.
The Voices, I have said, had been confused of late; hinting at coming danger, but specifying nothing. Now, as she stood on the rampart of Melun that April day, they suddenly broke the silence, speaking loud and clear. No one but herself may tell the story; hear her tell it to her judges, a year later:
"As I was on the ramparts of Melun, St. Catherine and St. Margaret warned me that I should be captured before Midsummer Day; that so it must needs be; nor must I be afraid and astounded; but take all things well, for God would help me. So they spoke, almost every day. And I prayed that when I was taken I might die in that hour, without wretchedness of long captivity; but the Voices said that so it must be. Often I asked the hour, which they told me not; had I known the hour I would not have gone into battle."[65]
These were the same Voices that had called the peasant girl from her quiet home at Domrémy; the same that with trumpet note had sent her on from victory to victory, through the burning days of Orleans and Patay; now, as clear and loud, they pronounced her doom. She heard, and bowed her head before the heavenly will in meek acceptance.
Is not this perhaps the most wonderful part of all the heroic story? She never thought of escape; it never occurred to her to lay down the sword. If it had been so willed, she would have held her hand for one hour, would have kept her chamber at the moment of fate, if haply it might pass and leave her free for further effort; since that was not to be, forward in God's name! There were still some good hours left.
Only one step higher, good Maid! that final step in Rouen Old Market, which shall take thee home to thy Father's house.
From Melun she rode to Lagny (whence the news of her presence spread to Paris, causing great alarm), and in that neighborhood had several skirmishes with the English, with little advantage to either side; and so, by-and-by, in mid-May, she came to Compiègne.
I make no apology for dwelling a little on these French towns which might—reverently be it said—be called the Stations of the Maid. Every rod of French ground is now and for all time sacred to us and to all lovers of Liberty.