of
buildings as his own, and on the same level, made it comparatively easy
to find them. But the Chateau must first settle into sleep, and he had
an hour or two to wait before he could safely go in search of them
unobserved. In the angry mood which swayed him the delay was
fortunate. For the first time in his life his temper was exasperated
against the man to whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of his
knapsack and lute, sent from the Chien Noir, lessen the irritation.
Few things feed the flame of a man's anger as do his own faults, and in
every string of the unlucky toy--for it was little more--he saw a sharp
reminder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness left by
Commines.

What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle de Vesc as this de
Vesc girl, as if she was some lumpish wench of the kitchen instead of a
sweet and gracious woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, and
yet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe strode up and down
the room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles;
that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in her
tenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in her
love. From which it will be seen that the Cupid's bow had sent its
shaft very deep indeed, and Commines by his contemptuous phrase had but
driven it more surely home.

There be those who say love dethrones reason, but observe with what
admirable logic, what cogency of deduction Stephen La Mothe could argue
upon Commines' incapacity for judgment--thus. He had misjudged Ursula
de Vesc, why not also Villon? If there had been this undeserved
prejudice against an innocent and helpless girl, was not his contempt
for Villon equally unjustified? How, in fact, could such a man as
Philip de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world and of the
world's affairs, understand or appreciate Villon the poet, Villon who
had lifted the whole literature and poetry of France to the highest
level it had yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous,
unthinkable, the one as great a blunder as the other. So Stephen La
Mothe gilded his gold, painting his lily lover-fashion time out of
mind, and whitewashed into a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchings
with which Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself.

With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found the outer passage
intensely dark. Its only illumination came from the narrow lancet
windows through which the moonlig