Suddenly his attention was arrested by the sound of a voice that seemed familiar to him. A man habited like a pilgrim from the Holy Land, in long hood and gabardine of grey, and with the pilgrim's cockleshell on his shoulder, had met another masker, habited like himself. The pair were exchanging salutations, in a speech that the speakers might well assume to be unknown to any person in the royal garden. The speech, however, jingled very familiarly on Villon's ear, for the man was talking in the amazing jargon which the worshipful company of cockleshells had devised for the better furtherance of their thievish purposes, and it appealed to Villon as intimately as a song that is learned in childhood.
The first pilgrim questioned the other.
"What do you carry in your scrip?"
And the second answered:
"I carry a cockleshell."
The first pilgrim questioned again:
"What do you carry in your hand?"
And the second responded:
"A foot of steel."
Yet again the first speaker queried:
"Will you drink the king's health?"
And the answer came decisively:
"In a flagon of Burgundy."
