of a wolfish snarl in his voice as he answered menacingly, "The
colour of blood sometimes." But the landlord, unabashed and
undismayed, stood his ground.

"None of your swaggering, Master François," he said sturdily. "There
is such a thing as a king in France and that king's name is writ
fair on his coinage. Show me a Louis XI. and I will show you my
Beaune wine."

The face of Master François flushed under its grime, and he fiddled
at his dagger nervously, as one uncertain whether to laugh or cry at
the dilemma which confronted him. Huguette and Montigny alike had
dipped their hands into their pouches for money to pay the poet's
score when to the amazement of Tristan the king forestalled their
kindnesses. Rising to his feet with creditable alacrity he advanced
towards Master François and saluted him with a gracious wave of the
hand. "Will you let me be of some small service to you," he began
politely, and as Villon turned to stare at him in surprise he
continued: "Will you honour me by drinking that Beaune wine our host
brags of at my expense?"

Villon's astonishment had not unnerved his clutch at opportunity.
Here was a god out of a machine, proffering cool liquor to dry
gullets. Master François gave back the salutation with a mien of
splendid condescension, while the rest of the company glared at the
burgess who thus thrust himself upon them, and Tristan, cursing the
king for his temerity, felt for a hidden dagger.

Villon's patronizing wave of the hand was magnificent in its
effrontery, and his words matched his gesture nobly.