Villon had been explaining to the king and to his military advisers
a scheme which had been growing in his mind throughout the week for
the confusion of the enemy, a scheme for which the gorgeous
entertainment to be given that evening was to serve as a golden
mask. Villon touched a point on the map which represented a spot
very familiar to him, a little dip in the swelling land, where he
used to play as a child and gather wildflowers and hide himself, and
imagine that he was a bandit or a great captain or a fairy
prince--any one of the thousand illusions of childhood at its play.
"There, sire," he said. "If we can lure the Burgundians to that
hollow, the day is ours. The sloping ground above it will mask a
thousand men."
Poncet de Riviere leaned forward questioningly.
"Are you sure of the lay of the land?"
Villon answered positively:
"Sure. I played truant there when I was no higher than your sword
belt."
Nantoillet spoke as a man who weighs his words:
"The scheme seems feasible, sire."
Villon glanced up from the table in humourous apology.
"You may think me a raw soldier," he said; "yet I have practised
strategy all my days.
Pages:
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164