The sound of his blows echoed
through the house with thin, phantasmal reverberations, as though
it were quite empty; but these had scarcely died away before a
measured tread drew near, a couple of bolts were withdrawn, and one
wing was opened broadly, as though no guile or fear of guile were
known to those within. A tall figure of a man, muscular and spare,
but a little bent, confronted Villon. The head was massive in
bulk, but finely sculptured; the nose blunt at the bottom, but
refining upward to where it joined a pair of strong and honest
eyebrows; the mouth and eyes surrounded with delicate markings, and
the whole face based upon a thick white beard, boldly and squarely
trimmed. Seen as it was by the light of a flickering hand-lamp, it
looked perhaps nobler than it had a right to do; but it was a fine
face, honourable rather than intelligent, strong, simple, and
righteous.
"You knock late, sir," said the old man in resonant, courteous
tones.
Villon cringed, and brought up many servile words of apology; at a
crisis of this sort, the beggar was uppermost in him, and the man
of genius hid his head with confusion.
"You are cold," repeated the old man, "and hungry? Well, step in."
And he ordered him into the house with a noble enough gesture.
"Some great seigneur," thought Villon, as his host, setting down
the lamp on the flagged pavement of the entry, shot the bolts once
more into their places.
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