“You have blood on your shoulder, my man,” he said.
Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon him as he left the house. He cursed Montigny in his heart.
“It was none of my shedding,” he stammered.
“I had not supposed so,” returned his host quietly. “A brawl?”
“Well, something of that sort,” Villon admitted with a quaver.
“Perhaps a fellow murdered?”
“Oh, no—not murdered,” said the poet, more and more confused. “It was all fair play—murdered by accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me dead!” he added fervently.
“One rogue the fewer, I daresay,” observed the master of the house.
“You may dare to say that,” agreed Villon, infinitely relieved. “As big a rogue as there is between here and Jerusalem. He turned up his toes like a lamb. But it was a nasty thing to look at. I daresay you’ve seen dead men in your time, my lord?” he added, glancing at the armour.
“Many,” said the old man. “I have followed the wars, as you imagine.”