said, "Eat!" He spread the mattress on the flagging and said,
"Sleep."

It was his own repast, it was his own bed, which the bellringer had gone
in search of.

The gypsy raised her eyes to thank him, but she could not articulate a
word. She dropped her head with a quiver of terror.

Then he said to her.--

"I frighten you. I am very ugly, am I not? Do not look at me; only
listen to me. During the day you will remain here; at night you can walk
all over the church. But do not leave the church either by day or by
night. You would be lost. They would kill you, and I should die."

She was touched and raised her head to answer him. He had disappeared.
She found herself alone once more, meditating upon the singular words of
this almost monstrous being, and struck by the sound of his voice, which
was so hoarse yet so gentle.

Then she examined her cell. It was a chamber about six feet square,
with a small window and a door on the slightly sloping plane of the roof
formed of flat stones. Many gutters with the figures of animals seemed
to be bending down around her, and stretching their necks in order to
stare at her through the window. Over the edge of her roof she perceived
the tops of thousands of chimneys which caused the smoke of all the
fires in Paris to rise beneath her eyes. A sad sight for the poor gypsy,
a foundling, condemned to death, an unhappy creature, without country,
without family, without a hearthstone.

At the moment when the thought of her isolation thus appeared to her
more poignant than ever, she felt a bearded and hairy head glide between
her hands, upon her knees. She started (everything alarmed her now) and
looked. It was the poor goat, the agile Djali, which had made its escape
after her, at the moment when Quasimodo had put to flight Charmolue's
brigade, and which had been lavishing caresses on her feet for nearly
an hour past, without being able to win a glance. The gypsy covered him
with kisses.

"Oh! Djali!" she said, "how I have forgotten thee! And so thou still
thinkest of me! Oh! thou art not an ingrate!"

At the same time, as though an invisible hand had lifted the weight
which had repressed her tears in her heart for so long, she began to
weep, and, in proportion as her tears flowed, she felt all that was most
acrid and bitter in her grief depart with them.

Evening came, she thought the night so beautiful that she made the
circuit of the elevated gallery which surrounds the churc