s saddle,
placed both hands upon the young man's shoulders, and gazed fixedly at
him for several seconds, as though enchanted with his good looks and
with the aid which he had just rendered her. Then breaking silence
first, she said to him, making her sweet voice still sweeter than
usual,--

"What is your name, monsieur le gendarme?"

"Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, at your service, my beauty!" replied
the officer, drawing himself up.

"Thanks," said she.

And while Captain Phoebus was turning up his moustache in Burgundian
fashion, she slipped from the horse, like an arrow falling to earth, and
fled.

A flash of lightning would have vanished less quickly.

"Nombrill of the Pope!" said the captain, causing Quasimodo's straps to
be drawn tighter, "I should have preferred to keep the wench."

"What would you have, captain?" said one gendarme. "The warbler has
fled, and the bat remains."

CHAPTER V. RESULT OF THE DANGERS.

Gringoire, thoroughly stunned by his fall, remained on the pavement
in front of the Holy Virgin at the street corner. Little by little, he
regained his senses; at first, for several minutes, he was floating in a
sort of half-somnolent revery, which was not without its charm, in which
aeriel figures of the gypsy and her goat were coupled with Quasimodo's
heavy fist. This state lasted but a short time. A decidedly vivid
sensation of cold in the part of his body which was in contact with the
pavement, suddenly aroused him and caused his spirit to return to the
surface.

"Whence comes this chill?" he said abruptly, to himself. He then
perceived that he was lying half in the middle of the gutter.

"That devil of a hunchbacked cyclops!" he muttered between his teeth;
and he tried to rise. But he was too much dazed and bruised; he was
forced to remain where he was. Moreover, his hand was tolerably free; he
stopped up his nose and resigned himself.

"The mud of Paris," he said to himself--for decidedly he thought that he
was sure that the gutter would prove his refuge for the night; and what
can one do in a refuge, except dream?--"the mud of Paris is particularly
stinking; it must contain a great deal of volatile and nitric salts.
That, moreover, is the opinion of Master Nicholas Flamel, and of the
alchemists--"

The word "alchemists" suddenly suggested to his mind the idea of
Archdeacon Claude Frollo. He recalled the violent scene which he had
just witnessed in part; that the gypsy wa