the unpretending praise thee, because thou hast taken upon thyself the heroic burdens that are too heavy for them. [choir singing] woe unto me when all men praise me. i bid you remember that i am a saint, and that saints can work miracles. and now tell me, shall i rise from the dead and come back to you a living woman? oh, no. what? must i burn again? are none of you ready to receive me? the heretic is always better dead. and mortal eyes cannot distinguish between the saint and the heretic. spare them. forgive us, joan. we are not yet good enough for you. i must go back to my bed. we sincerely regret our little mistake, but political necessities, although occasionally erroneous, are still imperative, so if you will be good enough to excuse me... your return would not make me the man you thought me. the utmost i can hope is that while i dare not bless you, i may one day enter into your blessedness. meanwhile, however... i who am of the dead, testified that day that you were innocent. but i do not see how the inquisition could be dispensed with in existing circumstances. therefore... oh, d