The rosary twines about her fingers, and she casts her pale eyes skywards. Speak to me, O God, she mouths the words, and the flames dance ever higher. Speak to me. Speak to me. For it was the Father in heaven who had leaned down, who had seen the tyranny of the English and had said ‘Joan, it is your duty. Joan, this is your call. Joan, you must serve your country. Joan, you must serve your God.’ She is the sole vessel of heaven; through her, the lord speaks. When the sky opens, she lets out a strangled cry, and the heat falls away. I do not feel you, she chants. I do not feel you. I am la Pucelle d’Orleans, I am the scourge of God, I am His sole instrument; and your flames are nothing.