At the head of the soldiers marched a
dapper gentleman, courtier-soldier or soldier-courtier, a thing of
silk and steel, half dandy, half man-at-arms, exquisitely attired
and flagrantly aware of his own attractions. He, too, was familiar
to the poet, for he was no other than the pink and white gentleman
whom he had seen acting as escort to Katherine on the day when he
first beheld her, and whose name, as he had learned on the previous
evening from Katherine's own lips, was Noel le Jolys.
"The puppet who dangles after my lady," he grumbled to himself. "He
jars the dream."
Villon felt profoundly sorry for his imprisoned playfellows, and
profoundly hostile to the pink and white gentleman. His friends
looked so wretched, so woebegone, so bedraggled, while their captor
looked so point-device and self-satisfied that Villon felt a fierce
indignation burn within him over the injustices of the world.
"How hang-dog my poor devils look and how dirty," he thought to
himself, as the soldiers ranged their prisoners in a line before him
at the base of the terrace, and their prinked and fragrant captain
came trippingly forward and saluted Villon, presenting to him at the
same time a piece of paper, covered with writing.
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