As Montjoye's words died away a great silence fell upon the assembled people, a silence so still and cruel that men's hearts grew cold and the warm June air seemed to be sighing over fields of ice. The king leaned over and addressed his prisoner confidentially: "Master Villon, Master Villon, you see what human friendship means and the sweet voices of the multitude." Villon answered boldly: "Sire, it is no news to me that men love the dear habit of living." Louis signalled to Montjoye. "Proclaim again," he said; and once more the pair of pursuivants blew their trumpets and once again Montjoye made his singular proposition of pardon to the assemblage. CHAPTER XVI "WE SPEAK TO MEN" It fell this time upon fresh ears, the ears of an old woman who was patiently pushing her way through the crowd in her effort to reach her humble lodging. She had succeeded in making her way to the open space as the last words of the herald's offer were being spoken, and suddenly her dulled brain caught the full significance of Montjoye's speech. Looking wildly around her, she saw where Villon stood, an armoured figure held captive, and without attempting to realize the meaning of what she beheld, she dropped her stick and tottered forward to the dais, where she fell on her knees with clasped, entreating hands. "Sire, sire, I will die for him!" Villon's heart leaped to his throat when he saw her. "Mammy, mammy, go away!" he cried, and he made a vain attempt to move towards his mother, a movement instantly restrained by the crossed weapons of his captors. At the same moment Katherine de Vaucelles came out of the church door in obedience to the summons of a royal page, who had found her at her prayers, and who told her that the king desired her presence. She paused at the head of the steps in amazed survey of the crowded place and a scene that at first she could not understand. "Who is this woman?" Louis asked, looking down at the poor old dame, who knelt before him and besought him. Olivier answered in his ear: "The fellow's mother, sire." A very little tenderness came into Louis' eyes, a very little tenderness trembled on his lips. "Woman, we cannot hear you," he said. "By God's law you have given him life once and by my law you may not give him life again." "Sire, I beseech you," Mother Villon entreated; but the king's pity was not to be purchased so. "Take her away and use her gently," he said. Noel le Jolys stooped to obey the king's command, but the old woman, rising to her feet, repulsed him fiercely. "No! no!" she said. "I will not leave my son," and she flung her old body passionately upon the prisoner's neck and clasped with her lean arms his mailed shoulders. Louis bade Montjoye proclaim for the last time, and once again the trumpets thundered and once again the cold, calm voice of Montjoye propounded the grim terms of the king's clemency. The silence that followed was swiftly broken by; the sweet, clear voice of a girl.