oath, Their own best interests let them now consult, And yield them to the Duke of Burgundy;    'Yclept the Good, he need must prove humane. DUNOIS. What say'st thou, sire? Thou wilt abandon Orleans! SENATOR (kneels down). My king! Abandon not thy faithful town! Consign her not to England's harsh control. She is a precious jewel in the crown, And none hath more inviolate faith maintained Towards the kings, thy royal ancestors. DUNOIS. Have we been routed? Is it lawful, sire, To leave the English masters of the field, Without a single stroke to save the town? And thinkest thou, with careless breath, forsooth, Ere blood hath flowed, rashly to give away The fairest city from the heart of France? CHARLES. Blood hath been poured forth freely, and in vain The hand of heaven is visibly against me; In every battle is my host o'erthrown, I am rejected of my parliament, My capital, my people, hail me foe, Those of my blood,—my nearest relatives,—    Forsake me and betray—and my own mother Doth nurture at her breast the hostile brood. Beyond the Loire we will retire, and yield To the o'ermastering hand of destiny Which sideth with the English. SOREL. God forbid That we in weak despair should quit this realm! This utterance came not from thy heart, my king, Thy noble heart, which hath been sorely riven By the fell deed of thy unnatural mother, Thou'lt be thyself again, right valiantly Thou'lt battle with thine adverse destiny, Which doth oppose thee with relentless ire. CHARLES (lost in gloomy thought). Is it not true? A dark and ominous doom Impendeth o'er the heaven-abandoned house Of Valois—there preside the avenging powers, To whom a mother's crime unbarred the way. For thirty years my sire in madness raved; Already have three elder brothers been Mowed down by death; 'tis the decree of heaven, The house of the Sixth Charles is doomed to fall. SOREL. In thee 'twill rise with renovated life! Oh, in thyself have faith!—believe me, king, Not vainly hath a gracious destiny Redeemed thee from the ruin of thy house, And by thy brethren's death exalted thee, The youngest born, to an unlooked-for throne Heaven in thy gentle spirit hath prepared The leech to remedy the thousand ills By party rage inflicted on the land. The flames of civil discord thou wilt quench, And my heart tells me thou'lt establish peace, And found anew the monarchy of France. CHARLES. Not I! The rude and storm-vexed times require A pilot formed by nature to command. A peaceful nation I could render happy A wild, rebellious people not subdue. I never with the sword could 

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