Chapter 11 - Saint Joan's Execution

At dawn on the morning of the 30th of May, 1431, when the guardian of the night went through the streets of Rouen, crying, "Awake, all ye who sleep! Pray God for sinners!" the city was already astir. Men and women came to their windows and gathered upon the doorsteps, looking at one another with this grim salutation: "She dies today!"

Permission had been granted her at the last to receive the Sacraments and the priest, Martin Ladvenu, who was to hear her confession, was deputed to call her from her last earthly sleep.

"Awake, Joan," he cried. "Awake, Joan. This day you are to be burned at the stake!"

Affrighted, the poor girl sprang up in her bed.

"Alas!" she said. "Why treat my body so horribly? It is pure, why consume it and reduce it to ashes? Ah! I would rather be beheaded seven times over than be thus burned!"

Although he who heard her last confession was one of those who had condemned her, he said, later, that in the light which at that solemn moment had penetrated his soul, struck by what passed her pure lips, he believed her to be a saint.

Her confession ended, Saint Joan, humbly kneeling, received holy communion with such recollection that all who surrounded her were filled with emotion. Many sobbed and cried, intermingling their tears with the prayers for the agonizing.

"Lord, have mercy on her! Holy Mary, pray for her! Saints and angels, intercede for her!" And when, a short time later, the cart which bore her to the place of execution passed through the streets, crowds of people who lined the way fell on their knees and cried aloud, "O Lord, have mercy on her!"

All at once a man pierced the throng, and threw himself before Saint Joan. It was Loyseleur, a miserable man, who, under the plea of compassion for Saint Joan, had played the part of a spy. Full of remorse he begged her pardon, but even while Saint Joan, smiling benignly, sweetly made the sign of forgiveness, the English guards drove him away under threats of instant death.

At length the couch of death was reached - a couch composed of immense pieces of wood, saturated with oil. When Joan perceived it she shrank back, crying out, "Rouen! Rouen! Wilt thou, then, be my last dwelling-place?"

If her judges had had a spark of mercy they would speedily have put an end to her misery, but they once more began to utter their long-winded exhortations and oft-repeated accusations against the hopeless victim of bigotry, jealousy, and perfidy. And while they thus discoursed, poor Saint Joan's courage began to falter. Human nature could endure no more. A self-imposed martyr, eager for the sacrifice, might, no doubt, have bravely preserved his fortitude through all the long rehearsal of false charges and preachments. But Saint Joan was not such a martyr. She did not want to die, and almost to the end believed that her judges would yield her to the protection of the Church, to which she had openly and willingly proclaimed her unfaltering loyalty. For a brief space the woman prevailed over the martyr! Saint Joan gave vent to the most heart-rending lamentations, declaring her innocence and imploring mercy. But as the executioners came forth to lead her to the pile, her strength and courage began to return, as if in response to her agonized prayers to Heaven. With head erect, her voice grown stronger, in the face of the vast multitude, she cried aloud:

"It is then ordained that I must die. Nevertheless, I am not a sinner. Good, simple people, I am innocent. Be ye witnesses that I die innocent. I beseech you, men, women, little children, that you will remember me in your prayers and intercede for my salvation. Priests, I beg that you give me the offering of a Mass for the repose of my soul. If there be any here whom I have wronged I ask their pardon. If there be any who have wronged me, I forgive them."

She asked for a cross. An English soldier made one from a stick and gave it to her. Saint Joan took it, kissed it fervently and placed it in her bosom. But that was not enough. She wished for the image of her Saviour. Brother Isambard, who had followed her all the way, handed her a crucifix, which she pressed long and fervently to her throbbing heart.

"Oh," she cried, "let me kiss those feet which were so cruelly pierced, and this poor body, wounded for our sins. Holy Virgin, sweet Lady of Paradise, by the memory of the sufferings of thy Son, have pity on me!"

The executioner applied the torch. At the sight of the ascending flames Saint Joan uttered a loud cry. Then, as Brother Isambard still continued at her side, with that kindness and thoughtfulness for others which had always distinguished her and which she was still to display almost in her very last moment, the Maid said to him:

"Brother, depart from me or you will be burned! But go beyond there, where I can see you, and hold up the crucifix before me, that I may still see it at the moment of my death."

He obeyed her, and seeking an elevation directly behind the front rows of spectators, he held up the cross to her view and veneration.

Almost at the final moment the irrepressible Cauchon approached her, saying:

"Joan, I come to offer you my final exhortation - "

But Saint Joan interrupted him, as she had already done once before in the prison.

"Bishop," she said, "through you I die."

The flames rose higher and higher.

"Water - Holy Water!" she was heard to exclaim. And then her voice grew calm, as through the rapidly enveloping smoke her form was hardly to be seen. Amid the seething fires the Maid's prayers ascended to the throne of a merciful and pitying Saviour. The gates of Paradise were opening to her. Was not this the deliverance, the great victory her Voices had promised her - this victory over sin and sorrow injustice, persecution, and death?

Once more, from the very heart of the flames, Saint Joan called out, brave, undaunted, faithful to the end.

"My Voices were from God. . . . My Voices did not deceive me - " No more doubt, no more fear - now she knew. "Jesus! Jesus!"

It was Saint Joan's last cry. In His name she had gone forth from her peasant home to the relief of France; in His name she had kept the faith of her soul; in His name she had suffered and endured until the end.

The flames roared more fiercely; a sudden outpouring of dense, black smoke concealed her entirely from the view of the spectators. When it rolled away the form of Saint Joan was no longer to be seen.

In His name she had rendered up her pure soul to God.

- taken from A Child's Life of Saint Joan of Arc, by Mary Ellen Mannix