a luminous inspiration has just
occurred to me. If I possessed an expedient for extricating her from
a dilemma, without compromising my own neck to the extent of a single
running knot, what would you say to it? Will not that suffice you? Is it
absolutely necessary that I should be hanged, in order that you may be
content?"

The priest tore out the buttons of his cassock with impatience: "Stream
of words! What is your plan?"

"Yes," resumed Gringoire, talking to himself and touching his nose with
his forefinger in sign of meditation,--"that's it!--The thieves are
brave fellows!--The tribe of Egypt love her!--They will rise at the
first word!--Nothing easier!--A sudden stroke.--Under cover of the
disorder, they will easily carry her off!--Beginning to-morrow evening.
They will ask nothing better.

"The plan! speak," cried the archdeacon shaking him.

Gringoire turned majestically towards him: "Leave me! You see that I am
composing." He meditated for a few moments more, then began to clap his
hands over his thought, crying: "Admirable! success is sure!"

"The plan!" repeated Claude in wrath.

Gringoire was radiant.

"Come, that I may tell you that very softly. 'Tis a truly gallant
counter-plot, which will extricate us all from the matter. Pardieu, it
must be admitted that I am no fool."

He broke off.

"Oh, by the way! is the little goat with the wench?"

"Yes. The devil take you!"

"They would have hanged it also, would they not?"

"What is that to me?"

"Yes, they would have hanged it. They hanged a sow last month. The
headsman loveth that; he eats the beast afterwards. Take my pretty
Djali! Poor little lamb!"

"Malediction!" exclaimed Dom Claude. "You are the executioner. What
means of safety have you found, knave? Must your idea be extracted with
the forceps?"

"Very fine, master, this is it."

Gringoire bent his head to the archdeacon's head and spoke to him in a
very low voice, casting an uneasy glance the while from one end to the
other of the street, though no one was passing. When he had finished,
Dom Claude took his hand and said coldly: "'Tis well. Farewell until
to-morrow."

"Until to-morrow," repeated Gringoire. And, while the archdeacon was
disappearing in one direction, he set off in the other, saying to
himself in a low voice: "Here's a grand affair, Monsieur Pierre
Gringoire. Never mind! 'Tis not written that because one is of small
account one should take fright at a great enterpr