the courtesy of the old seigneur, but
Villon was hardened in that matter; he had made mirth for great lords
before now, and found them as black rascals as himself. And so he
devoted himself to the viands with a ravenous gusto, while the old man,
leaning backward, watched him with steady, curious eyes.

"You have blood on your shoulder, my man," he said.

Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon him as he left the
house. He cursed Montigny in his heart.

"It was none of my shedding," he stammered.

"I had not supposed so," returned his host quietly. "A brawl?"

"Well, something of that sort," Villon admitted with a quaver.

"Perhaps a fellow murdered?"

"Oh, no--not murdered," said the poet, more and more confused. "It was
all fair play--murdered by accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me
dead!" he added fervently.

"One rogue the fewer, I daresay," observed the master of the house.

"You may dare to say that," agreed Villon, infinitely relieved. "As big
a rogue as there is between here and Jerusalem. He turned up his toes
like a lamb. But it was a nasty thing to look at. I daresay you've seen
dead men in your time, my lord?" he added, glancing at the armour.

"Many," said the old man. "I have followed the wars, as you imagine."

Villon laid down his knife and fork, which he had just taken up again.

"Were any of them bald?" he asked.

"Oh yes, and with hair as white as mine."

"I don't think I should mind the white so much," said Villon. "His was
red." And he had a return of his shuddering and tendency to laughter,
which he drowned with a great draught of wine. "I'm a little put out
when I think of it," he went on. "I knew him--damn him! And then the
cold gives a man fancies--or the fancies give a man cold, I don't know
which."

"Have you any money?" asked the old man.

"I have one white," returned the poet, laughing. "I got it out of a dead
jade's stocking in a porch. She was as dead as Caesar, poor wench, and as
cold as a church, with bits of ribbon sticking in her hair. This is a
hard world in winter for wolves and wenches and poor rogues like me."

"I," said the old man, "am Enguerrand de la Feuillee, seigneur de
Brisetout, bailly du Patatrac. Who and what may you be?"

Villon rose and made a suitable reverence. "I am called Francis Villon,"
he said, "a poor Master of Arts of this university. I know some Latin,
and a deal of vice. I can make chansons, ballades, lais, virelais, and
r