Villon buried his face in his hands. "Your majesty, be merciful!" he implored. The king's scorn blazed out: "You read Louis of France a lesson, and Louis of France returns the compliment. I took you for true gold and I am afraid that you are only base metal. You mouthed your longing for the chance to show what you could do. Here is your chance! Take it or leave it. But remember that I never change my mind. You may have your week of wonder if you wish, but if you do, by my word as a king, you shall swing for it." Villon rose to his feet and caught at his throat as if the grip of the rope were at that very moment closing about it. He choked as he spoke. "In God's name, sire, what have I done that you should torture me thus?" The king snapped his answer: "You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can't get off scot free." Villon's bewildered thoughts forced themselves into words. He spoke not so much to the king as to himself, desperately trying to decide. "Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with its tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm sleep, living hands to hold and living laughter to gladden me--or a week of cloth of gold, of glory, of love--and then a shameful death!" He flung himself on the marble seat and crouched there, shuddering. The king patted him on the back. "Pray, friend, pray, to help your judgment!" He had taken off his black velvet cap and ran his eye over the little row of metal saints which encircled it as if he were meditating to which particular patron he should recommend his Grand Constable to address himself. As he did so, Olivier le Dain came through the garden and moved swiftly to the king's side. "Sire," he said, "the Burgundian herald, Toison d'Or, attends under a flag of truce with a message for your majesty." Louis turned to his barber. "We will receive him here, Olivier, in this green audience chamber. We need the free air when we hold speech with Burgundy." As Olivier left the royal presence a little thing happened which meant much to four people. Katherine came on to the terrace with Noel le Jolys. She had a lute in her hand and she touched its chords lightly, seeking to make an air for words as she idled the time with her wooer. Louis saw her, though Villon did not, for he was huddled in a heap on the marble seat with his head in his hands trying to control his whirling thoughts. A new demon of mischief entered the king's heart. "How," he thought, "if my lady Virtue, who flouted me, could be lured to love this beggar-man?" He ambled across to where Villon lay and tapped him on the shoulder. Villon turned to him a face drawn and white with agony. "One further chance, fellow," said the king. "If the Count of Montcorbier win the heart of Lady Katherine de Vaucelles within the week, he shall escape the gallows and carry his lady love where he pleases." "On your word of honour, sire?" "My word is my honour, Master François. Well?"