mony from people of all ranks. The peasants whom she had loved and tended in her early girlhood, the men who had fought by her side, the women who had known and honoured her, the officers of the trial, and many who had watched her sufferings and beheld her death — all were called to speak for her now. They testified to her goodness, her purity, her single-hearted love for France, her piety, her boldness in war, and her good sense in counsel. All were for her not one voice was raised against her. Rouen, the place of her martyrdom, became the place of her triumph.

The judges pronounced the whole trial to be polluted by wrong and calumny, and therefore null and void; finally, they proclaimed that neither Joan nor any of her kindred had incurred any blot of infamy, and freed them from every shadow of disgrace.

By order of the tribunal, this new verdict was read publicly in all the cities of France, and first at Rouen, and in the Old Market Place, where she had been cruelly burnt. This was done with great solemnity; processions were made, sermons were preached, and on the site of her martyrdom a stone cross was soon raised to her memory.

The world has no relic of Joan. Her armour, her banner, the picture of herself that she saw at Arras, have all disappeared. We possess but the record of a fair face framed in plentiful dark hair, of a strong and graceful shape, of a sweet woman's voice. And it seems and yet, indeed, hardly is a wonder that no worthy poem has been made in her honour. She is one of the few for whom poet and romancer can do little; for as there is nothing in her life that needs either to be hidden or adorned, we see her best in the clear and searching light of history.

VI

CATHERINE DOUGLAS

THE TRAGEDY OF JAMES I. OF SCOTS. 20TH FEBRUARY, 1457

NOTE.-Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honour of her heroic act when she barred the door with her arm against the murderers of James the First of Scots, received popularly the name of "Barlass." The name remains to her descendants, the Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken arm. She married Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie.

A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem, known as The King's Quhair, are quoted in the course of this ballad.

I

CATHERINE am a Douglas born,

A name to all Scots dear;

And Kate Barlass they 've called me now
Through many a waning year.

This old arm 's withered now. 'T was once

Most deft 'mong maidens all

To rein the steed, to wing the shaft,
To smite the palm-play ball.

In hall adown the close-linked dance
It has shone most white and fair;
It has been the rest for a true lord's head,
And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed,

And the bar to a King's chambère.

ΙΟΙ

Ay, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass,

And hark with bated breath

How good King James, King Robert's son,
Was foully done to death.

Through all the days of his gallant youth
The princely James was pent,

By his friends at first and then by his foes,
In long imprisonment.

For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir,
By treason's murderous brood

Was slain; and the father quaked for the child
With the royal mortal blood.

I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care,
Was his childhood's life assured;

And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke,

Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured.

Yet in all things meet for a kingly man

Himself did he approve;

And the nightingale through his prison-wall
Taught him both lore and love.

For once, when the bird's song drew him close
To the opened window-pane,

In her bowers beneath a lady stood,
A light of life to his sorrowful mood,
Like a lily amid the rain.

And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note,

He framed a sweeter Song,

More sweet than ever a poet's heart

Gave yet to the English tongue.

She was a lady of royal blood;

And when, past sorrow and teen

He stood where still through his crownless years
His Scotish realm had been,

At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,
A heart-wed King and Queen.

But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, And song be turned to moan,

And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate, When the tempest-waves of a troubled State Are beating against a throne.

Yet well they loved; and the god of Love,
Whom well the King had sung,

Might find on the earth no truer hearts
His lowliest swains among.

From the days when first she rode abroad
With Scotish maids in her train,

I Catherine Douglas won the trust
Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane.

And oft she sighed, "To be born a King!"

And oft along the way

When she saw the homely lovers pass

She has said, "Alack the day!"

Years waned, the loving and toiling years:
Till England's wrong renewed

Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown,
To the open field of feud.

'T was when the King and his host were met At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold,

The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp
With a tale of dread to be told.

And she showed him a secret letter writ
That spoke of treasonous strife,
And how a band of his noblest lords

Were sworn to take his life.

"And it

may

be here or it may be there,

In the camp or the court," she said:

"But for my sake come to your people's arms And guard your royal head."

Quoth he, "T is the fifteenth day of the siege, And the castle 's nigh to yield."

"O face your foes on your throne," she cried, "And show the power you wield;

And under your Scotish people's love
You shall sit as under your shield."

At the fair Queen's side I stood that day
When he bade them raise the siege,
And back to his Court he sped to know

How the lords would meet their Liege.