ore; only at intervals a sigh
of rage heaved the hollows of his chest. There was neither shame nor
redness on his face. He was too far from the state of society, and too
near the state of nature to know what shame was. Moreover, with such
a degree of deformity, is infamy a thing that can be felt? But wrath,
hatred, despair, slowly lowered over that hideous visage a cloud
which grew ever more and more sombre, ever more and more charged with
electricity, which burst forth in a thousand lightning flashes from the
eye of the cyclops.

Nevertheless, that cloud cleared away for a moment, at the passage of
a mule which traversed the crowd, bearing a priest. As far away as
he could see that mule and that priest, the poor victim's visage grew
gentler. The fury which had contracted it was followed by a strange
smile full of ineffable sweetness, gentleness, and tenderness. In
proportion as the priest approached, that smile became more clear, more
distinct, more radiant. It was like the arrival of a Saviour, which the
unhappy man was greeting. But as soon as the mule was near enough to the
pillory to allow of its rider recognizing the victim, the priest dropped
his eyes, beat a hasty retreat, spurred on rigorously, as though in
haste to rid himself of humiliating appeals, and not at all desirous of
being saluted and recognized by a poor fellow in such a predicament.

This priest was Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo.

The cloud descended more blackly than ever upon Quasimodo's brow. The
smile was still mingled with it for a time, but was bitter, discouraged,
profoundly sad.

Time passed on. He had been there at least an hour and a half,
lacerated, maltreated, mocked incessantly, and almost stoned.

All at once he moved again in his chains with redoubled despair, which
made the whole framework that bore him tremble, and, breaking the
silence which he had obstinately preserved hitherto, he cried in a
hoarse and furious voice, which resembled a bark rather than a human
cry, and which was drowned in the noise of the hoots--"Drink!"

This exclamation of distress, far from exciting compassion, only added
amusement to the good Parisian populace who surrounded the ladder, and
who, it must be confessed, taken in the mass and as a multitude, was
then no less cruel and brutal than that horrible tribe of robbers among
whom we have already conducted the reader, and which was simply the
lower stratum of the populace. Not a voice was raised arou