in hand. It was a detachment going the night rounds by order of M. d’Estouteville, commandant of the Provostry of Paris.

Quasimodo was instantly surrounded, seized, and bound. He roared, he foamed, he bit, and had it been daylight, no doubt his face alone, rendered still more hideous by rage, would have put the whole detachment to flight. But darkness deprived him of his most formidable weapon—his ugliness.

His companion had vanished during the struggle.

The gipsy girl sat up lightly on the officer’s saddle, put her two hands on the young man’s shoulders, and regarded him fixedly for several seconds, obviously charmed by his good looks and grateful for the service he had just rendered her.

She was the first to break the silence. Infusing a still sweeter tone into her sweet voice, she said: “Monsieur the Gendarme, how are you called?”

“Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers, at your service, ma belle.”

“Thank you,” she replied; and while Monsieur the Captain was occupied in twirling his mustache á la Burguignonne, she slid from the saddle like a falling arrow and was gone—no lightning could have vanished more rapidly.

“Nombril du Pape!” swore the captain while he made them tighten Quasimodo’s bonds. “I would rather have kept the girl.”

“Well, captain,” returned one of the men, “though the bird has flown, we’ve got the bat safe.”