hang you, then, and say 'Thank you!'" retorted the vagabond wench,
turning her back on him.

The second,--old, black, wrinkled, hideous, with an ugliness conspicuous
even in the Cour des Miracles, trotted round Gringoire. He almost
trembled lest she should want him. But she mumbled between her teeth,
"He's too thin," and went off.

The third was a young girl, quite fresh, and not too ugly. "Save me!"
said the poor fellow to her, in a low tone. She gazed at him for a
moment with an air of pity, then dropped her eyes, made a plait in her
petticoat, and remained in indecision. He followed all these movements
with his eyes; it was the last gleam of hope. "No," said the young girl,
at length, "no! Guillaume Longuejoue would beat me." She retreated into
the crowd.

"You are unlucky, comrade," said Clopin.

Then rising to his feet, upon his hogshead. "No one wants him," he
exclaimed, imitating the accent of an auctioneer, to the great delight
of all; "no one wants him? once, twice, three times!" and, turning
towards the gibbet with a sign of his hand, "Gone!"

Bellevigne de l'Etoile, Andry the Red, Francois Chante-Prune, stepped up
to Gringoire.

At that moment a cry arose among the thieves: "La Esmeralda! La
Esmeralda!"

Gringoire shuddered, and turned towards the side whence the clamor
proceeded.

The crowd opened, and gave passage to a pure and dazzling form.

It was the gypsy.

"La Esmeralda!" said Gringoire, stupefied in the midst of his emotions,
by the abrupt manner in which that magic word knotted together all his
reminiscences of the day.

This rare creature seemed, even in the Cour des Miracles, to exercise
her sway of charm and beauty. The vagabonds, male and female, ranged
themselves gently along her path, and their brutal faces beamed beneath
her glance.

She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed
her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She examined him for a moment
in silence.

"You are going to hang this man?" she said gravely, to Clopin.

"Yes, sister," replied the King of Thunes, "unless you will take him for
your husband."

She made her pretty little pout with her under lip. "I'll take him,"
said she.

Gringoire firmly believed that he had been in a dream ever since
morning, and that this was the continuation of it.

The change was, in fact, violent, though a gratifying one. They undid
the noose, and made the poet step down from the stool. His emotion was