the same rose from this garden, which of us would win?"
The affable fribble's intelligence appeared to be baffled.
"I do not understand you," he protested.
Villon shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind," he said, seating himself again on the marble seat and looking at the familiar names on the piece of paper.
"Send me hither René de Montigny."
He was fairly convinced by this time that he was not wandering in the labyrinths of a dream, that he really was awake, but that for some reason which he was unable to fathom, he had been thus strangely transmuted into the semblance of splendour and authority.
"The popinjay fails to recognize me," he said to himself; "so may my bullies," and as he thought, René de Montigny was pushed forward by a couple of soldiers and stood sullenly defiant before him.
Villon leaned forward, oddly interested in the grotesque turn of things which put him in this position with his old companion and fellow-scamp.
"You are—" he questioned.
Montigny answered angrily,
"René de Montigny, of gentle blood, fallen on ungentle days."
