"
"Well, mammy, your dutiful son has made a song for you to sing
yourself to sleep with. I went to church the other day. Oh, on my
honour, I did"--this was in reply to a startled look of surprise
that flooded the old woman's face--"and a prayer came into my
head--a prayer for you to say to our Lady."
The old woman kissed him fondly on the forehead.
"My love bird," she said, and as she spoke a boyish look that had
long been absent from Villon's face came back to it for a moment.
"Here it is," he said. "Listen." And he whispered to her the verses
he had made, while the old woman crossed herself reverentially.
"Lady of Heaven, Queen of Earth,
Empress of Hell, I kneel and plead
You pity, by the holy birth,
The humblest Christian of the Creed;
I cannot write; I cannot read;
I am a woman poor and old,
But in the Church, where I behold
The gates of Paradise, I cry
Woman to woman, make me bold
In thy belief to live and die."
"There, mammy, there is a pretty prayer for you."
Mother Villon was dissolved in tears and sobbed on his shoulder.
"You should have been a good man," she said.
Villon stroked her hair very gently.
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