her words. Her pure, red lips half smiled;
her serene and candid brow became troubled, at intervals, under her
thoughts, like a mirror under the breath; and from beneath her long,
drooping, black eyelashes, there escaped a sort of ineffable light,
which gave to her profile that ideal serenity which Raphael found at the
mystic point of intersection of virginity, maternity, and divinity.

Nevertheless, Gringoire continued,--

"What must one be then, in order to please you?"

"A man."

"And I--" said he, "what, then, am I?"

"A man has a hemlet on his head, a sword in his hand, and golden spurs
on his heels."

"Good," said Gringoire, "without a horse, no man. Do you love any one?"

"As a lover?--"

"Yes."

She remained thoughtful for a moment, then said with a peculiar
expression: "That I shall know soon."

"Why not this evening?" resumed the poet tenderly. "Why not me?"

She cast a grave glance upon him and said,--

"I can never love a man who cannot protect me."

Gringoire colored, and took the hint. It was evident that the young girl
was alluding to the slight assistance which he had rendered her in the
critical situation in which she had found herself two hours previously.
This memory, effaced by his own adventures of the evening, now recurred
to him. He smote his brow.

"By the way, mademoiselle, I ought to have begun there. Pardon my
foolish absence of mind. How did you contrive to escape from the claws
of Quasimodo?"

This question made the gypsy shudder.

"Oh! the horrible hunchback," said she, hiding her face in her hands.
And she shuddered as though with violent cold.

"Horrible, in truth," said Gringoire, who clung to his idea; "but how
did you manage to escape him?"

La Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and remained silent.

"Do you know why he followed you?" began Gringoire again, seeking to
return to his question by a circuitous route.

"I don't know," said the young girl, and she added hastily, "but you
were following me also, why were you following me?"

"In good faith," responded Gringoire, "I don't know either."

Silence ensued. Gringoire slashed the table with his knife. The young
girl smiled and seemed to be gazing through the wall at something. All
at once she began to sing in a barely articulate voice,--

_Quando las pintadas aves,
Mudas estan, y la tierra_--*

* When the gay-plumaged birds grow weary, and the earth--

She broke off abruptly, and began to car