The same. JOHANNA enters. She is clad in armor, and wears a garland in her hair. CHARLES. Thou comest as a priestess decked, Johanna, To consecrate the union formed by thee! BURGUNDY. How dreadful was the maiden in the fight! How lovely circled by the beams of peace! My word, Johanna, have I now fulfilled? Art thou contented? Have I thine applause? JOHANNA. The greatest favor thou hast shown thyself. Arrayed in blessed light thou shinest now, Who didst erewhile with bloody, ominous ray, Hang like a moon of terror in the heavens.       [Looking round. Many brave knights I find assembled here, And joy's glad radiance beams in every eye; One mourner, one alone I have encountered; He must conceal himself, where all rejoice. BURGUNDY. And who is conscious of such heavy guilt, That of our favor he must needs despair? JOHANNA. May he approach? Oh, tell me that he may; Complete thy merit. Void the reconcilement That frees not the whole heart. A drop of hate Remaining in the cup of joy converts The blessed draught to poison. Let there be No deed so stained with blood that Burgundy Cannot forgive it on this day of joy. BURGUNDY. Ha! now I understand! JOHANNA. And thou'lt forgive? Thou wilt indeed forgive? Come in, Duchatel!        [She opens the door and leads in DUCHATEL, who remains standing at a distance. The duke is reconciled to all his foes, And he is so to thee.        [DUCHATEL approaches a few steps nearer, and tries to read the countenance of the DUKE. BURGUNDY. What makest thou Of me, Johanna? Know'st thou what thou askest? JOHANNA. A gracious sovereign throws his portals wide, Admitting every guest, excluding none; As freely as the firmament the world, So mercy must encircle friend and foe. Impartially the sun pours forth his beams Through all the regions of infinity; The heaven's reviving dew falls everywhere, And brings refreshment to each thirsty plant;    Whate'er is good, and cometh from on high, Is universal, and without reserve; But in the heart's recesses darkness dwells! BURGUNDY. Oh, she can mould me to her wish; my heart Is in her forming hand like melted wax.    —Duchatel, I forgive thee—come, embrace me! Shade of my sire! oh, not with wrathful eye Behold me clasp the hand that shed thy blood. Ye death-gods, reckon not to my account, That my dread oath of vengeance I abjure. With you, in yon drear realm of endless night, There beats no human heart, and all remains Eternal, steadfast, and immovable. Here in the light of day 'tis otherwise. Man, living, feeling man, is aye the sport Of the 

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