sometimes raised its voice in a victorious whoop, and made

sepulchral grumblings in the chimney. The cold was growing sharper

an the night went on. Villon, protruding his lips, imitated the

gust with something between a whistle and a groan. It was an

eerie, uncomfortable talent of the poet's, much detested by the

"Can't you hear it rattle in the gibbet?" said Villon. "They are

all dancing the devil's jig on nothing, up there. You may dance,

my gallants, you'll be none the warmer! Whew! what a gust! Down