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 night alive and
passing round the bottle.