the delusion of your hearts ye thought To plunge in servitude the freeborn French, And to attach their fair and goodly realm, Like a small boat, to your proud English bark! Ye fools! The royal arms of France are hung Fast by the throne of God; and ye as soon From the bright wain of heaven might snatch a star As rend a single village from this realm, Which shall remain inviolate forever! The day of vengeance is at length arrived; Not living shall ye measure back the sea, The sacred sea—the boundary set by God Betwixt our hostile nations—and the which Ye ventured impiously to overpass. MONTGOMERY (lets go her hands). Oh, I must die! I feel the grasp of death! JOHANNA. Die, friend! Why tremble at the approach of death? Of mortals the irrevocable doom? Look upon me! I'm born a shepherd maid; This hand, accustomed to the peaceful crook, Is all unused to wield the sword of death. Yet, snatched away from childhood's peaceful haunts, From the fond love of father and of sisters, Urged by no idle dream of earthly glory, But heaven-appointed to achieve your ruin, Like a destroying angel I must roam, Spreading dire havoc around me, and at length Myself must fall a sacrifice to death! Never again shall I behold my home! Still, many of your people I must slay, Still, many widows make, but I at length    Myself shall perish, and fulfil my doom. Now thine fulfil. Arise! resume thy sword, And let us fight for the sweet prize of life. MONTGOMERY (stands up). Now, if thou art a mortal like myself, Can weapons wound thee, it may be assigned To this good arm to end my country's woe, Thee sending, sorceress, to the depths of hell. In God's most gracious hands I leave my fate. Accursed one! to thine assistance call The fiends of hell! Now combat for thy life!        [He seizes his sword and shield, and rushes upon her; martial music is heard in the distance. After a short conflict MONTGOMERY falls. 

  

       SCENE VIII.     

    JOHANNA (alone). To death thy foot did bear thee—fare thee well!        [She steps away from him and remains absorbed in thought. Virgin, thou workest mightily in me! My feeble arm thou dost endue with strength, And steep'st my woman's heart in cruelty. In pity melts the soul and the hand trembles, As it did violate some sacred fane, To mar the goodly person of the foe. Once I did shudder at the polished sheath, But when 'tis needed, I'm possessed with strength, And as it were itself a thing of life, The fatal weapon, in my trembling grasp, Self-swayed, inflicteth the unerring 

 Prev. P 41/81 next