everything since then has been and is a dream. The coming of Katherine, a dream. My fight with Thibaut d'Aussigny, a dream. Then the king—popping up at the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-Box—a dream. These clothes, these servants, this garden—dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake presently and be devilish cold and devilish hungry, and devilish shabby. But in the meantime, these dream liquors make good drinking."
He was about to fill himself another cup when a shadow fell at his feet, the shadow of Olivier le Dain standing before him with his air of emphasized respect, which was beginning to pall upon the transfigured poet.
"Your dignity will forgive me, but it is the king's wish you should pass judgment on certain prisoners."
Villon stared at him.
"I? And here?"
"Such is the king's pleasure."
"What prisoners?"
"Certain rogues and vagabonds, mankind and womankind, taken brawling in the Fircone Tavern last night."
Villon stroked his chin thoughtfully. An idea seemed to take command of his confused mind. Here
