"I have more to do. For seven days I have wrestled with greatness as Jacob wrestled with the angels; I have made the king popular, the Parisians loyal, the army faithful--" "Then why do you linger here where courtiers feast and ladies dance?" Villon's voice swelled proudly as he answered: "I want the Duke of Burgundy to believe that the king's favourite is a zany, and the king's court an orgy, where the king's honour melts like a pearl in a pot of vinegar. But our swords are tempered in wine and sharpened to dance music, and to-night we ride." The girl sighed. "I would that I were a man that I might ride with you." Villon came close to her and peered into her eyes. "I ride in your honour. Heaven has been very good to me, and I serve France serving you. Perhaps I serve both for the last time." "For the last time?" she repeated. "Even so, my sweet Lady Echo. Those far away lanterns warn me that I may die to-morrow. Some of us will be dreaming our last dreams by sunrise. I may be one of those heavy sleepers." "Why, you may die if you ride on the king's business, but so may I who sit at home and eat my heart." "For whom?" "I will tell you that to-morrow." Villon touched her lightly on the wrist and pointed to the grey tower on whose weather-beaten wall the quaint old dial showed plainly in the bright moonlight, with its wise Latin inscription: "Dum Spectas, Fugit Hora, Carpe Diem." "There is no time like now time. That dial there is as wise as the wisest." And he rapidly rendered the antique maxim into a running rhyme: "Observe how fast time hurries past, Then use each hour while in your power; For comes the sun but time flies on, Proceeding ever, returning never." Katherine tried to laugh. "This was old wisdom when Noah sailed the seas," she said, and drew a little apart from him. Villon followed her. "Well, let to-morrow tell to-morrow's story. To-night I feel like a happy child in a world of make-believe. To-night we are immortal, you and I, wandering forever in this green garden under those indifferent stars, breathing this rose-scented air, spelling the secret of the world." "You may say what you please to-morrow," she whispered, but Villon would not have it so. "Alas, no! To-morrow I shall be mortally sober; to-night I am divinely drunk-drunk with star wine, flower wine, song wine. The stars burn my brain; the roses pierce my flesh; the songs trouble my soul. To-night, if I dared, I would ease my heart." The girl spoke so faintly that only a lover's ears could hear the words: "You may say what you please to-night." Villon caught at his heart as if to keep it in the compass of his breast.