United States or Åland ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
The drift of the music seemed sadder than before, and there was a little silence when the last words floated away into the blackened rafters, a silence broken by one of the girls. "Enne, that was a sad song, Abbess," Isabeau sighed, and her face seemed to have paled beneath its false colours and the lines about her mouth and eyes to have grown older in surrender to inevitable thoughts.
Yet they were content, who, were young in the world's recaptured youth. Fate grinned and went on with her weaving. "Et Ysabeau, Qui Dit: Enne!" Somewhat later Francois came down the deserted street, treading on air. Francois was a poet, but a civic poet; then, as always, he pilfered his similes from shop-windows.
Yet for the sake of old time, come home, Ysabeau; your brother is my friend, and the hour is somewhat late for honest women to be abroad." "Enne?" shrilled Ysabeau; "and yet, if I cannot strike a spark of courage from this clod here, there come those who may help me, Francois de Montcorbier. 'Ware Sermaise, Master Francois!" Francois wheeled.
Literature of the skittish sort must deplore the monastic reticence, but history can do no more than accept it and leave imagination to fill in the blank as best it pleases. All history is certain of is that the girls gathered together, chatting like sparrows, each speaking rapidly: "The gentleman is a wizard. Why, he told me " "Enne, a miracle; he reminded me " "Why, he knows "
When the girls were close to him, Villon spoke: "Well, young ladies, what is this trade of yours that has brought you into trouble?" Jehanneton dropped a curtsey. "I make the caps that line helmets." Isabeau followed quickly, "I am a lace weaver. Enne, an honest trade." Blanche came next, "I am a slipper maker." Denise ended the catalogue. "And I a glover." Mischief danced in Villon's eyes.
Word Of The Day