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Updated: May 4, 2025
The Anglo-Saxon peoples alone possess the counterattack a rush. To other peoples concentration of thought is impossible after the impact. Instinctively Quasimodo's hands flew to his face. He heard a laugh, mirthless and terrible. Before he could drop his hands from his face-blows, short and boring, from this side and from that, over and under.
And while Captain Phoebus was turning up his moustache in Burgundian fashion, she slipped from the horse, like an arrow falling to earth, and fled. A flash of lightning would have vanished less quickly. "Nombrill of the Pope!" said the captain, causing Quasimodo's straps to be drawn tighter, "I should have preferred to keep the wench." "What would you have, captain?" said one gendarme.
"Go to the devil!" cried the priest, with a terrible look; and, giving the amazed Gringoire a push on the shoulders, he plunged, with long strides, under the gloomiest arcades of the cathedral. After the morning in the pillory, the neighbors of Notre-Dame thought they noticed that Quasimodo's ardor for ringing had grown cool.
At length a bailiff from the Chatelet clad in black, mounted on a black horse, who had been stationed beside the ladder since the beginning of the execution, extended his ebony wand towards the hour-glass. The torturer stopped. The wheel stopped. Quasimodo's eye opened slowly. The scourging was finished.
The archdeacon, leaving Paris to avoid her execution, had returned to learn where Esmeralda was situated. From his cell in Notre Dame he observed her movements, and, in his madness, jealous of Quasimodo's service to her, resolved to have her removed. If she still refused him he would give her up to justice.
She no longer saw him, but she felt the presence of a good genius about her. Her provisions were replenished by an invisible hand during her slumbers. One morning she found a cage of birds on her window. There was a piece of sculpture above her window which frightened her. She had shown this more than once in Quasimodo's presence.
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.
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.
He overlooked Quasimodo's belt, however. The Anglo-Saxon idea was top hole. His fists had saved his life. Hawksley heard the panting of an engine and turned his head. Dimly he saw a giant bridge and a long drab train moving across it. He picked up the fallen man's cap and tried it on. Not a particularly good fit, but it would serve.
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.
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