what you will!
But have mercy! love me!"

Then she struck him with the fury of a child. She made her beautiful
hands stiff to bruise his face. "Begone, demon!"

"Love me! love mepity!" cried the poor priest returning her blows with
caresses.

All at once she felt him stronger than herself.

"There must be an end to this!" he said, gnashing his teeth.

She was conquered, palpitating in his arms, and in his power. She felt a
wanton hand straying over her. She made a last effort, and began to cry:
"Help! Help! A vampire! a vampire!"

Nothing came. Djali alone was awake and bleating with anguish.

"Hush!" said the panting priest.

All at once, as she struggled and crawled on the floor, the gypsy's hand
came in contact with something cold and metal-lic-it was Quasimodo's
whistle. She seized it with a convulsive hope, raised it to her lips and
blew with all the strength that she had left. The whistle gave a clear,
piercing sound.

"What is that?" said the priest.

Almost at the same instant he felt himself raised by a vigorous arm. The
cell was dark; he could not distinguish clearly who it was that held
him thus; but he heard teeth chattering with rage, and there was just
sufficient light scattered among the gloom to allow him to see above his
head the blade of a large knife.

The priest fancied that he perceived the form of Quasimodo. He assumed
that it could be no one but he. He remembered to have stumbled, as
he entered, over a bundle which was stretched across the door on the
outside. But, as the newcomer did not utter a word, he knew not what
to think. He flung himself on the arm which held the knife, crying:
"Quasimodo!" He forgot, at that moment of distress, that Quasimodo was
deaf.

In a twinkling, the priest was overthrown and a leaden knee rested on
his breast.

From the angular imprint of that knee he recognized Quasimodo; but what
was to be done? how could he make the other recognize him? the darkness
rendered the deaf man blind.

He was lost. The young girl, pitiless as an enraged tigress, did not
intervene to save him. The knife was approaching his head; the
moment was critical. All at once, his adversary seemed stricken with
hesitation.

"No blood on her!" he said in a dull voice.

It was, in fact, Quasimodo's voice.

Then the priest felt a large hand dragging him feet first out of the
cell; it was there that he was to die. Fortunately for him, the moon had
risen a few moments before.