She had held a rose in her hand, and as she spoke she flung it from her in dainty symbolism of the life which the poor tavern poet had risked so bravely for her sake. A mad resolve came into Villon's mind. If he was, indeed, all that this woman thought him to be, all that those with whom he had spoken had assured him he was, now was his chance to play the lover to his heart's desire. If the Grand Constable had the power to pardon, surely the Grand Constable had also the right to woo. She had drawn a little way from him and he followed her up, standing so close to her that with a little movement he might have kissed her on the cheek. "Even when you are the woman? If I had stood in this rascal's shoes, I would have done as he did for your sake." The girl gave a joyous cry. "If you think this, you should grant the poor knave his freedom." Villon flung his hands apart with a magnificent gesture of liberation. "That broker of ballads shall go free. Your prayer unshackles him and we will do no more than banish him from Paris. Forget that such a slave ever came near you." The lady dropped him a magnificent curtsey, and her cheeks glowed with gratitude. "I shall remember your clemency." She made as if she would leave his presence, but his boldness waxed within him as a fire waxes with new wood, and he caught her lightly by the wrist. "By Saint Venus, I envy this fellow that he should have won your thoughts. For I am in his case and I, too, would die to serve you!" Surprise flamed in the girl's eyes, surprise and amusement mingled. "My lord, you do not know me," she laughed, and her laughter was as fresh and merry as a milkmaid's in the meadows. "Did he know you? Yet when he saw you he loved you and made bold to tell you so." Her forehead wrinkled prettily in a little protesting frown. "His words were of no more account than the wind in the eaves. But you and I are peers and the words we change have meanings." Villon caught his breath. The Lord of Montcorbier was, indeed, wardered by very different stars from the fellow of the Fircone. He saluted her banteringly. "Though I be newly come to Paris I have heard much of the beauty and more of the pride of the Lady Katherine de Vaucelles." A little fire burned in the girl's pale cheeks, and she flung her head back scornfully. "I am humble enough as to my beauty, but I am very proud of my pride." Villon, leaning forward with entreating hands, pleaded with beseeching lips. "Would you pity me if I told you that I loved you?" Katherine laughed, and the music of her laughter seemed to wake faint echoes among the roses as if every blossom were a magic bell with a fairy hand at the clapper. "Heaven's mercy," she said. "How fast your fancy gallops. I care little to be flattered and less to be wooed, and I swear that I should be very hard to win." She turned to mount the steps as she spoke, as if she had said all that she wanted to say, but Villon delayed her with imploring protest.