ry is a prying into the
pleasures of others--Ohe! the noise yonder is redoubling!"

The tumult around Notre-Dame was, in fact, increasing. They listened.
Cries of victory were heard with tolerable distinctness. All at once, a
hundred torches, the light of which glittered upon the helmets of men
at arms, spread over the church at all heights, on the towers, on the
galleries, on the flying buttresses. These torches seemed to be in
search of something; and soon distant clamors reached the fugitives
distinctly:--"The gypsy! the sorceress! death to the gypsy!"

The unhappy girl dropped her head upon her hands, and the unknown began
to row furiously towards the shore. Meanwhile our philosopher reflected.
He clasped the goat in his arms, and gently drew away from the gypsy,
who pressed closer and closer to him, as though to the only asylum which
remained to her.

It is certain that Gringoire was enduring cruel perplexity. He was
thinking that the goat also, "according to existing law," would be hung
if recaptured; which would be a great pity, poor Djali! that he had thus
two condemned creatures attached to him; that his companion asked no
better than to take charge of the gypsy. A violent combat began between
his thoughts, in which, like the Jupiter of the Iliad, he weighed in
turn the gypsy and the goat; and he looked at them alternately with eyes
moist with tears, saying between his teeth:

"But I cannot save you both!"

A shock informed them that the boat had reached the land at last. The
uproar still filled the city. The unknown rose, approached the gypsy,
and endeavored to take her arm to assist her to alight. She repulsed him
and clung to the sleeve of Gringoire, who, in his turn, absorbed in the
goat, almost repulsed her. Then she sprang alone from the boat. She was
so troubled that she did not know what she did or whither she was going.
Thus she remained for a moment, stunned, watching the water flow past;
when she gradually returned to her senses, she found herself alone
on the wharf with the unknown. It appears that Gringoire had taken
advantage of the moment of debarcation to slip away with the goat into
the block of houses of the Rue Grenier-sur-l'Eau.

The poor gypsy shivered when she beheld herself alone with this man. She
tried to speak, to cry out, to call Gringoire; her tongue was dumb
in her mouth, and no sound left her lips. All at once she felt
the stranger's hand on hers. It was a strong, cold hand.