"Perhaps a fellow murdered?"
"Oh no, not murdered," said the poet, more and more confused. "It
was all fair play - murdered by accident. I had no hand in it, God
strike me dead!" he added fervently.
"One rogue the fewer, I dare say," observed the master of the
house.
"You may dare to say that," agreed Villon, infinitely relieved.
"As big a rogue as there is between here and Jerusalem. He turned
up his toes like a lamb. But it was a nasty thing to look at. I
dare say you've seen dead men in your time, my lord?" he added,
glancing at the armour.
"Many," said the old man. "I have followed the wars, as you
imagine."
Villon laid down his knife and fork, which he had just taken up
again.
"Were any of them bald?" he asked.
"Oh yes, and with hair as white as mine."
"I don't think I should mind the white so much," said Villon. "His
was red." And he had a return of his shuddering and tendency to
laughter, which he drowned with a great draught of wine. "I'm a
little put out when I think of it," he went on. "I knew him - damn
him! And then the cold gives a man fancies - or the fancies give a
man cold, I don't know which."
"Have you any money?" asked the old man.
"I have one white," returned the poet, laughing. "I got it out of
a dead jade's stocking in a porch. She was as dead as Caesar, poor
wench, and as cold as a church, with bits of ribbon sticking in her
hair.
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