Villon felt profoundly sorry for his imprisoned playfellows, and profoundly hostile to the pink and white gentleman. His friends looked so wretched, so woebegone, so bedraggled, while their captor looked so point-device and self-satisfied that Villon felt a fierce indignation burn within him over the injustices of the world.
"How hang-dog my poor devils look and how dirty," he thought to himself, as the soldiers ranged their prisoners in a line before him at the base of the terrace, and their prinked and fragrant captain came trippingly forward and saluted Villon, presenting to him at the same time a piece of paper, covered with writing.
"My lord," he said, dapperly, "here are the names of these night birds."
Villon took the paper and looked straightly into the young man's eyes.
"Have we ever met before?" he asked.
Noel le Jolys made a deprecatory gesture.
"Alas! no," he said. "Your lordship has swept into court like an unheralded comet. You shall tell us tales of Provence to please our ladies."
Still gravely looking at him, Villon questioned him again.
"Messire Noel, if you and I had a mind to pluck
