, and that
lasted a minute! And they would take her from me again! And now, when
she is beautiful, when she is grown up, when she speaks to me, when she
loves me; it is now that they would come to devour her, before my very
eyes, and I her mother! Oh! no! these things are not possible. The good
God does not permit such things as that."

Here the cavalcade appeared to halt, and a voice was heard to say in the
distance,--

"This way, Messire Tristan! The priest says that we shall find her at
the Rat-Hole." The noise of the horses began again.

The recluse sprang to her feet with a shriek of despair. "Fly! fly! my
child! All comes back to me. You are right. It is your death! Horror!
Maledictions! Fly!"

She thrust her head through the window, and withdrew it again hastily.

"Remain," she said, in a low, curt, and lugubrious tone, as she pressed
the hand of the gypsy, who was more dead than alive. "Remain! Do not
breathe! There are soldiers everywhere. You cannot get out. It is too
light."

Her eyes were dry and burning. She remained silent for a moment; but she
paced the cell hurriedly, and halted now and then to pluck out handfuls
of her gray hairs, which she afterwards tore with her teeth.

Suddenly she said: "They draw near. I will speak with them. Hide
yourself in this corner. They will not see you. I will tell them that
you have made your escape. That I released you, i' faith!"

She set her daughter (down for she was still carrying her), in one
corner of the cell which was not visible from without. She made her
crouch down, arranged her carefully so that neither foot nor hand
projected from the shadow, untied her black hair which she spread over
her white robe to conceal it, placed in front of her her jug and her
paving stone, the only articles of furniture which she possessed,
imagining that this jug and stone would hide her. And when this was
finished she became more tranquil, and knelt down to pray. The day,
which was only dawning, still left many shadows in the Rat-Hole.

At that moment, the voice of the priest, that infernal voice, passed
very close to the cell, crying,--

"This way, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers."

At that name, at that voice, la Esmeralda, crouching in her corner, made
a movement.

"Do not stir!" said Gudule.

She had barely finished when a tumult of men, swords, and horses halted
around the cell. The mother rose quickly and went to post herself before
her window, in order to