"That hedge-side beggar?"
"A hedge-side beggar who carries a signet slung round his neck. His jacket opened as he stooped and the ring swung out. The hedge-side beggar boasts a crest, Monsieur La Mothe: a martlet with three mullets in chief. Now do you understand?"
"No."
"It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two brothers, the last of their family, and Guy de Molembrais trusted our revered King—yes, I see you know the name."
Know the name? La Mothe knew it as he knew the justice of the King. Had he not given his satire a loose rein over the safe-conduct which drew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessness which brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith? If Villon was right then this little inch or two of new-cut twig might indeed be all he said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and a warning against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. But was he right?
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite," and Villon nodded. His face was very grave: not for an instant had he slipped into his sardonic mood of ironical jest. "And, mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how and when he can."
"Does Saxe know?"
"Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at the way you pounded his horse."
La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the grey where he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to the stables. But if his intention was to charge Molembrais with his cowardly attempt on the boy's life it was baulked. At the door Michel met him, his rheumy eyes still blinking from his drunken sleep.