thought I should die in a bed. Here is another kind of battlefield. Give me drink."
"Some water," Villon cried to Olivier, who stood a little apart from the pair with the resigned look of the physician who knows that his art is of no avail.
Huguette protested faintly.
"Not water. Wine. I have ever loved the taste of it, and 'tis too late to change now."
Olivier filled a cup from the flagon on the table and was for lifting it to the girl's lips, but her feeble hand repulsed him and she pleaded to Villon:
"Give it to me, François."
Villon took the cup from the barber's hand, lifted it to the dying girl's lips, and she drank greedily. The strong wine gave her for a moment something of its own false strength, and she struggled to her feet, Villon rising with her and supporting her.
"Your health, François. I suppose I have been a great sinner. Will God forgive me?"
Villon stifled a heavy groan, but he was sworn to console her if he could, and, indeed, he believed his words of consolation.
"He understands his children."
The heavy head drooped its golden curls upon his shoulder.
"You always were hopeful," she said brokenly.
