"
His words fell like the beat of a passing bell upon the ears of an
absolutely silent crowd and for some few year-long seconds the
silence brooded over the place. The five wantons on the fringe of
the crowd caught at each others' fingers and gasped. Was that
splendid gentleman their old friend, Fran?ois Villon? As for the
five rogues who knew the secret, they had begun to laugh at Villon's
first words, but the laughter dried upon their lips as he ended.
From the church suddenly the exultant music of the Te Deum ceased to
swell and in its place crept forth upon the silent air the awful
notes of a Miserere. The king had been at the ear of the organist
that morning and had planned his effects well. The melancholy music
stirred the people to murmurs of surprise and protest.
Guy Tabarie, flourishing his notched and bloody sword, thrust his
round body forward.
"What jest is this?" he asked.
And Villon answered him:
"Such a jest as I would rather weep over to-morrow than laugh at
to-day. For the pitcher breaks at the well's mouth this very
morning. Messire Noel, to you I surrender my sword. I like to
believe that it has scraped a little shame from its master's coat.
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