The shepherd girl that had delivered France — she,
from her dungeon, she, fron) her baiting at the stake,
she, from her duel with fire, as she entered her last
dream — saw Domremy, saw the fountain of Dom-
remy, saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood
had wandered. That Easter festival, which man had
denied to her languishing heart — that resurrection of
spring-time, which the darkness of dungeons had inter-
cepted from Tier, hungering after the glorious liberty of
forests — were by God given back into her hands, as
jewels that had been stolen from her by robbers. With
those, perhaps, (for the minutes of dreams can stretch



JOAN OF ARC. ^119

into ages,) was given back to her by God the bliss of
childhood. By special privilege, for her might be
created, in this farewell dream, a second childhood,
innocent as the first ; but not, like that, sad with the
gloom of a fearful mission in the rear. This mission
had now been fulfilled. The storm was weathered,
the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing ofi".
The blood that she was to reckon for, had been ex-
acted ; the tears, that she was to shed in secret had
been paid to the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes
had been faced steadily, had been suffered, had been
survived. And in her last fight upon the scaffold she
had triumphed gloriously ; victoriously she had tasted
the stings of death. For all, except this comfort from
her farewell dream, she had died — died, amidst the
tears of ten thousand enemies — died, amidst the drums
and trumpets of armies — died, amidst peals redoubling
upon peals, volleys upon volleys, from the saluting
clarions of martyrs.
