"Does Master François Villon ask his life?"
Villon shook his head.
"No, sire. Master François Villon played and Master François Villon pays."
As he spoke the angry people, swaying like a sea, shouted new shouts of rescue, clamoured new cries for pardon. Olivier, green-pale, whispered eagerly to the king:
"Sire, the rogues are in a damnable temper. Can you not gain time, postpone, promise?"
Louis answered imperturbably:
"Are the fools so fond of the fellow? I know a way to stop their shouting."
As he spoke, for the first time he rose from his seat, a frail, small, black figure, to dominate those raging waves of humanity, while Olivier, holding up his hand to order silence, shouted:
"Peace, peace! The king would speak with his good people of Paris."
The noisy voices dropped slowly into silence to hear what the king said.
"Good people of Paris, I am no tyrant. But a king is the father of his people, and his ears can never be shut against the cries of his children. You all love this man? Hear, then, my judgment! This man's life is forfeit. Which of you will redeem it?
