He drained the cup and set it down to fill another from the companion vessel and to repeat the ceremony of sniffing, tasting and swallowing. Again the desire of his palate was pleased and pacified. He reflected as he sipped and swallowed. "This quintessence of crushed violets ripened no otherwhere than in the valleys of Bordeaux. Ergo, I am not drunk. I do not think I am mad, neither, for I know in my heart that I am poor François Villon, penniless Master of Arts, and no will o' the wisp Grand Constable. Then I am dreaming, fast asleep in the chimney corner of the Fircone Tavern, having finished that flask I filched, and everything since then has been and is a dream. The coming of Katherine, a dream. My fight with Thibaut d'Aussigny, a dream. Then the king--popping up at the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-Box--a dream. These clothes, these servants, this garden--dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake presently and be devilish cold and devilish hungry, and devilish shabby. But in the meantime, these dream liquors make good drinking." He was about to fill himself another cup when a shadow fell at his feet, the shadow of Olivier le Dain standing before him with his air of emphasized respect, which was beginning to pall upon the transfigured poet. "Your dignity will forgive me, but it is the king's wish you should pass judgment on certain prisoners." Villon stared at him. "I? And here?" "Such is the king's pleasure." "What prisoners?" "Certain rogues and vagabonds, mankind and womankind, taken brawling in the Fircone Tavern last night." Villon stroked his chin thoughtfully. An idea seemed to take command of his confused mind. Here was a chance to learn something of the reality that lay at the core of all this mystery of roses and wine and fine raiment. He leaned forward curiously and almost whispered to the attendant barber, "Tell me, is Master François Villon, Master of Arts, rhymer at his best, vagabond at his worst, ne'er-do-well at all seasons, and scapegrace in all moods, among them?" Olivier smiled complacently as those in office are accustomed to smile at the humours of great men. "Your dignity is pleased to jest. Shall I send you the prisoners?" Villon caught at the offer sharply. "Can I do with them as I wish?" "Absolutely as you wish. Such is the king's will." Villon leaned back in resigned surrender to an astonishing situation. He had dreamed strange dreams in his days and nights, but never a dream like this dream. "Set a thief to try a thief," he philosophized, "Well, bring them in." Olivier bowed and disappeared silently along the rose alley by which he had come. When he was alone again Villon slapped his forehead resoundingly, as if he hoped to scare his senses back into sanity by violent assault. "Oh, my poor head," he moaned. "Am I awake? Am I asleep? What an embroglio!"