urned back hastily, as if in a hurry to
avoid humiliating appeals, and not at all anxious to be greeted by a
poor wretch in the pillory.

The priest was the archdeacon, Claude Frollo. The smile on Quasimodo's
face became bitter and profoundly sad.

Time passed. He had been there at least an hour and a half, wounded,
incessantly mocked, and almost stoned to death.

Suddenly he again struggled in his chains with renewed despair, and
breaking the silence which he had kept so stubbornly, he cried in a
hoarse and furious voice, "Water!"

The exclamation of distress, far from exciting compassion, only
increased the amusement of the Paris mob. Not a voice was raised, except
to mock at his thirst.

Quasimodo cast a despairing look upon the crowd, and repeated in a
heartrending voice, "Water!"

Everyone laughed. A woman aimed a stone at his head, saying, "That will
teach you to wake us at night with your cursed chimes!"

"Here's a cup to drink out of!" said a man, throwing a broken jug at his
breast.

"Water!" repeated Quasimodo for the third time.

At this moment he saw the gypsy girl and her goat come through the
crowd. His eye gleamed. He did not doubt that she, too, came to be
avenged, and to take her turn at him with the rest. He watched her
nimbly climb the ladder. Rage and spite choked him. He longed to destroy
the pillory; and had the lightning of his eye had power to blast, the
gypsy girl would have been reduced to ashes long before she reached the
platform. Without a word she approached the sufferer, loosened a gourd
from her girdle, and raised it gently to the parched lips of the
miserable man. Then from his eye a great tear trickled, and rolled
slowly down the misshapen face, so long convulsed with despair.

The gypsy girl smilingly pressed the neck of the gourd to Quasimodo's
jagged mouth.

He drank long draughts; his thirst was feverish. When he had done, the
poor wretch put out his black lips to kiss the hand which had helped
him. But the girl, remembering the violent attempt of the previous
night, and not quite free from distrust, withdrew her hand quickly.

Quasimodo fixed upon her a look of reproach and unspeakable sorrow.

The sight of this beautiful girl succouring a man in the pillory so
deformed and wretched seemed sublime, and the people were immediately
affected by it. They clapped their hands, and shouted, "Noel! Noel!"

Esmeralda--for that was the name of the gypsy girl--came down from