man of
genius hid his head with confusion.

"You are cold," repeated the old man, "and hungry? Well, step in." And
he ordered him into the house with a noble enough gesture.

"Some great seigneur," thought Villon, as his host setting down the
lamp on the flagged pavement of the entry, shot the bolts once more into
their places.

"You will pardon me if I go in front," he said, when this was done; and
he preceded the poet upstairs into a large apartment, warmed with a pan
of charcoal and lit by a great lamp hanging from the roof. It was very
bare of furniture: only some gold plate on a sideboard; some folios; and
a stand of armour between the windows. Some smart tapestry hung upon the
walls, representing the crucifixion of our Lord in one piece, and in
another a scene of shepherds and shepherdesses by a running stream. Over
the chimney was a shield of arms.

"Will you seat yourself," said the old man, "and forgive me if I leave
you? I am alone in my house to-night, and if you are to eat I must
forage for you myself."

No sooner was his host gone than Villon leaped from the chair on which
he had just seated himself, and began examining the room, with the
stealth and passion of a cat. He weighed the gold flagons in his hand,
opened all the folios, and investigated the arms upon the shield, and
the stuff with which the seats were lined. He raised the window
curtains, and saw that the windows were set with rich stained glass in
figures, so far as he could see, of martial import. Then he stood in the
middle of the room, drew a long breath, and retaining it with puffed
cheeks, looked round and round him, turning on his heels, as if to
impress every feature of the apartment on his memory.

"Seven pieces of plate," he said. "If there had been ten, I would have
risked it. A fine house, and a fine old master, so help me all the
saints!"

And just then, hearing the old man's tread returning along the corridor,
he stole back to his chair, and began humbly toasting his wet legs
before the charcoal pan.

His entertainer had a plate of meat in one hand and a jug of wine in the
other. He set down the plate upon the table, motioning Villon to draw in
his chair, and going to the sideboard, brought back two goblets, which
he filled.

"I drink to your better fortune," he said, gravely touching Villon's cup
with his own.

"To our better acquaintance," said the poet, growing bold. A mere man of
the people would have been awed by