WARWICK.
And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,
Spare for no faggots, let there be enow.
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,
That so her torture may be shortened.
PUCELLE.
Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity,
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege:
I am with child, ye bloody homicides.
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although ye hale me to a violent death.
YORK.
Now heaven forfend! The holy maid with child?
WARWICK.
The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought!
Is all your strict preciseness come to this?
YORK.
She and the Dauphin have been juggling.
I did imagine what would be her refuge.
WARWICK.
Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards live,
Especially since Charles must father it.
PUCELLE.
You are deceived; my child is none of his.
It was Alençon that enjoy’d my love.
YORK.
Alençon, that notorious Machiavel!
It dies and if it had a thousand lives.
PUCELLE.
O, give me leave, I have deluded you.
’Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I named,
But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d.
WARWICK.
A married man! That’s most intolerable.