THE king's hand fell upon his shoulder and shattered his meditations.
"Are you so dashed by the death of a wanton?" the king asked mockingly.
Villon turned upon him in a noble rage.
"She had God's breath in her body, sire," he said. Then drawing his hand across his forehead as if to dissipate the sad fancies that oppressed him, he went on:
"I have been John-a-Nods for the moment, sire; now I am Jack-a-Deeds again. The hour for battle is at hand."
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"You have done me a good turn, gossip," he said, "and may ask any grace of me except your life. That depends on your lady."
Villon looked over at the corner where his old boon companions were huddled together, the miserable centre of a circle of soldiers.
"Sire," he said; "grant me the lives of those rascals. They shall ride with me and fight for France to-night. It is better than making them play bob-apple on the evil tree."
