Suffering no rival, brooking no control,
And executing by unrighteous means
The judgments of thine own unlawful will."
"But hear me, Maid of Orleans!" he exclaim'd:
"Should the wolf enter thy defenceless flock,
Were it a crime if thy more mighty force
Destroy'd the fell destroyer? If thy hand
Had slain a ruffian as he burst thy door
Prepared for midnight murder, should'st thou feel
The weight of blood press heavy on thy soul?
I slew the wolves of state, the murderers
Of thousands. Joan! when rusted in its sheath
The sword of justice hung, blamest thou the man
That lent his weapon for the righteous deed?"
Conrade replied, "Nay, Richemont, it were well
To slay the ruffian as he burst thy doors;
But if he bear the plunder safely thence,
And thou should'st meet him on the future day,
Vengeance must not be thine: there is the law
To punish; and the law alloweth not,
That the accuser take upon himself
The judge's part; still less doth it allow
That he should execute upon the accused
Untried, unheard, a sentence, which so given
Becomes, whate'er the case, itself a crime."
"Thou hast said wisely," cried the Constable;
"But there are guilty ones above the law,
Men whose black crimes exceed the utmost bound
Of private guilt; court vermin that buzz round,
And fly-blow the King's ear, and make him waste,
In this most perilous time, his people's wealth
And blood; immersed one while in sensual sloth,
Heedless though ruin threat the realm they rule;
And now projecting some mad enterprise,
Sending their troops to sure defeat and shame.
These are the men who make the King suspect
His wisest, faithfulest, best counsellors;
And for themselves and their dependents, seize
All places, and all profits; and they wrest
To their own ends the statutes of the land,
Or safely break them; thus, or indolent,
Or active, ruinous alike to France.
Wisely thou sayest, warrior, that the Law
Should strike the guilty; but the voice of Justice
Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries,
Whom the laws cannot reach, the dagger should."
The Maid replied, "It seemeth then, O Chief,
That reasoning to thine own conviction thus,
Thou standest self-acquitted of all wrong,
Self-justified, yea, self-approved. I ask not
Whether this public zeal hath look'd askaunt
To private ends; men easily deceive
Others, and oft more easily themselves.
But what if one reasoning as thou hast done
Had in like course proceeded to the act,
One of the people, one of low degree,
In whom the strong desire of public good
Had grown to be his one sole sleepless thought,
A passion, and a madness; raised as high
Above all sordid motives as thyself;
Beneath such impulses of rivalry
And such ambitious projects, as perforce
Men will impute to thee? had such a man
Stood forth the self-appointed minister
To execute his own decrees of death,
The law on him had rightfully enforced
That sentence, which the Almighty hath enjoin'd
Of life for life. Thou, chief, art by thy rank
And power exempted from the penalty:
What then hast thou exampled, — right and wrong
Confounding thus, and making lawless might
The judge in its own quarrel? Trust me, chief,
That if a people sorely are oppress'd.
The dreadful hour of overthrow will come
Too surely and too soon! He best meanwhile
Performs the sage's and the patriot's part,
Who in the ear of rage and faction breathes
The healing words of love."
Thus communed they.
Meantime, all panic-struck and terrified,
The English urge their flight; by other thoughts
Possess'd than when, elate with arrogance,
They dreamt of conquest, and the crown of France
At their disposal. Of their hard-fought fields,
Of glory hardly earn'd, and lost with shame,
Of friends and brethren slaughter'd, and the fate
Threatening themselves, they brooded sadly, now
Repentant late and vainly. They whom fear
Erst made obedient to their conquering march,
Rise on them in defeat, while they retire,
Marking their path with ruin, day by day
Leaving the weak and wounded destitute
To the foe's mercy; thinking of their home,
Though to that far-off prospect scarcely hope
Could raise a sickly eye. Oh then what joy
Inspired anew their bosoms, when, like clouds
Moving in shadows down the distant hill,
They saw their coming succors! In each heart
Doubt raised a busy tumult; soon they knew
The English standard, and a general shout
Burst from the joyful ranks: yet came no joy
To Talbot: he, with dark and downward brow,
Mused sternly, till at length aroused to hope
Of vengeance, welcoming his gallant son,
He brake a sullen smile.[1]
"Son of my age,
Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields.
Thy father bids thee welcome, though disgraced,
Baffled, and flying from a woman's arm!
Yes, by my former glories, from a woman!
The scourge of France, the conqueror of men,
Flying before a woman! Son of Talbot,
Had the winds wafted thee a few days sooner,
Thou hadst seen me high in honor, and thy name
Alone had scatter'd armies; yet, my son,
I bid thee welcome! here we rest our flight,
And face again the foe."
So spake the chief;
And well he counsell'd: for not yet the sun
Had reach'd meridian height, when o'er the plain
Of Patay, they beheld the troops of France
Speed in pursuit. Soon as the troops of France
Beheld the dark battalions of the foe
Shadowing the distant plain, a general shout
Burst from the expectant host, and on they prest,
Elate of heart and eager for the fight,
- ↑ ???
