Yet there was a small house, backed up against the cemetery wall, which was still awake, and awake
to evil purpose, in that snoring district. There was not much to betray it from without; only a stream
of warm vapour from the chimney-top, a patch where the snow melted on the roof, and a few half-
obliterated footprints at the door. But within, behind the shuttered windows, Master Francis Villon
the poet, and some of the thievish crew with whom he consorted, were keeping the n ...