The king's keen glance surveyed the scene with no sign of fear and no sign of annoyance. Leaning easily upon the railing, as a man might lean who surveyed an amusing farce or interlude, he addressed the crowd: "Good people of Paris, you have heard your Grand Constable pronounce sentence upon a criminal. Has Master François Villon any reason to urge, any plea to offer, why the sentence should not be carried out?" Villon waved his hand disdainfully. "I have nothing whatever to say, sire. François Villon must die. It's bad luck for him, but he has worse luck and so--to business." As he spoke he drew near to the line of Scottish archers and two of their number laid hands on him, one at either side. The sight of their hero thus in the very clutch of justice spurred the multitude to Renéwed exasperation. Angry demands for justice, for mercy, for rescue, shook the summer air. Unarmed citizens broke into an armourer's shop hard by, and, seizing whatever weapons they could lay their hands upon, flourished them aloft in significant assertion that their words were but the prefaces to deeds. Again Tabarie's bull voice bellowed to those about him: "Kings must listen to the voice of the people. Shall the man who led us to victory die a rogue's death?" And again his thunder heralded a storm. Soldiers and citizens alike seemed prepared to rescue Villon by force from the hands of his enemies. The Scottish archers with levelled arquebusses formed a line in front of the dais and every courtier drew his sword. Only the king seemed unmoved, only the king seemed entertained by the wind he had sowed, the whirlwind he had reaped. He asked quite quietly: "Does Master François Villon ask his life?" Villon shook his head. "No, sire. Master François Villon played and Master François Villon pays." As he spoke the angry people, swaying like a sea, shouted new shouts of rescue, clamoured new cries for pardon. Olivier, green-pale, whispered eagerly to the king: "Sire, the rogues are in a damnable temper. Can you not gain time, postpone, promise?" Louis answered imperturbably: "Are the fools so fond of the fellow? I know a way to stop their shouting." As he spoke, for the first time he rose from his seat, a frail, small, black figure, to dominate those raging waves of humanity, while Olivier, holding up his hand to order silence, shouted: "Peace, peace! The king would speak with his good people of Paris." The noisy voices dropped slowly into silence to hear what the king said. "Good people of Paris, I am no tyrant. But a king is the father of his people, and his ears can never be shut against the cries of his children. You all love this man? Hear, then, my judgment! This man's life is forfeit. Which of you will redeem it? If there be one among you ready to take Master François Villon's place on yonder gibbet, let that one speak now." There was a brief silence as the mob began to realize the meaning of the king's words, a silence broken by angry cries.