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."