Shall the man who led
us to victory die a rogue's death?"
And again his thunder heralded a storm. Soldiers and citizens alike
seemed prepared to rescue Villon by force from the hands of his
enemies. The Scottish archers with levelled arquebusses formed a
line in front of the dais and every courtier drew his sword. Only
the king seemed unmoved, only the king seemed entertained by the
wind he had sowed, the whirlwind he had reaped. He asked quite
quietly:
"Does Master Fran?ois Villon ask his life?"
Villon shook his head.
"No, sire. Master Fran?ois Villon played and Master Fran?ois Villon
pays."
As he spoke the angry people, swaying like a sea, shouted new shouts
of rescue, clamoured new cries for pardon. Olivier, green-pale,
whispered eagerly to the king:
"Sire, the rogues are in a damnable temper. Can you not gain time,
postpone, promise?"
Louis answered imperturbably:
"Are the fools so fond of the fellow? I know a way to stop their
shouting."
As he spoke, for the first time he rose from his seat, a frail,
small, black figure, to dominate those raging waves of humanity,
while Olivier, holding up his hand to order silence, shouted:
"Peace, peace! The king would speak with his good people of Paris.
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