The three who had hold of Gringoire led him up to the barrel, and the pandemonium was silent for a moment, save for the caldron tenanted by the child.

Gringoire dared not breathe or lift his eyes.

“Hombre, quita tu sombrero, ”⁵

Gringoire heaved a sigh.

Meanwhile the King, from his elevated seat, demanded: “What sort of a rascal is this?”

Gringoire started. This voice, though speaking in menacing tones, reminded him of the one which that very morning had struck the first blow at his Mystery, as it whined in the middle of the audience, “Charity, I pray!” He looked up —it was indeed Clopin Trouillefou.

Clopin Trouillefou, invested with the regal insignia, had not one rag the more or the less upon him. The sore on his arm had disappeared certainly, while in his hand he held one of those leather-thonged whips called boullayes, and used in those days by the sergeants of the guard to keep back the crowd. On his head he had a sort of bonnet twisted into a circle and closed at the top; but whether it was a child’s cap or a king’s crown it would be hard to say, so much did the two resemble one another.

However, Gringoire, without any apparent reason, felt his hopes revive a little on recognising in the King of the Court of Miracles his accursed beggar of the great Hall.

“Maître,” he stammered, “Monseigneur—Sire—How must I call you?” he said at last, having reached the highest point of his scale, and not knowing how to mount higher nor how to descend.

“Monseigneur, Your Majesty, or Comrade—call me what thou wilt, only make haste. What hast thou to say in thy defence?”

“In my defence?” thought Gringoire; “I don’t quite like the sound of that. I am the one,” he stammered, “who this morning—”

“By the claws of the devil,” broke in Clopin, “thy name, rascal, and nothing more! Hark ye! thou standest before three puissant sovereigns—myself, Clopin Trouillefou, King of Tunis, successor to the Grand Coësre, Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Argot; Mathis Hunyadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt and Bohemia, the yellow-vised old fellow over there with a clout round his head; Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of Galilee, that fat fellow who’s hugging a wench instead of attending to us. We are thy judges. Thou hast entered into the Kingdom of Argot without being an Argotier, and so violated the privileges of our city. Thou must pay the penalty unless thou art either a capon, a franc mitou, or a rifodè—that is to say, in the argot of honest men, either a thief, a beggar, or a vagabond. Art thou any one of these? Come, justify thyself—describe thy qualifications.”

“Alas!” said Gringoire, “I have not that honour. I am the author—”

“That’s enough,” resumed Trouillefou without letting him finish; “thou shalt go hang. A very simple matter, messieurs the honest burghers. We do unto you as we are done by. The same law that you mete out to the Truands, the Truands mete out to you again. You are to blame if that law is a bad one. No harm if now and then an honest man grin through the hempen collar—that makes the thing honourable. Come, my friend, divide thy rags cheerfully among these ladies. I am going to string thee up for the diversion of the Vagabonds, and thou shalt give them thy purse for a pour-boire. If thou hast any last mummeries to go through, thou wilt find down in that wooden mortar a very passable stone God the Father that we stole from Saint-Pierre-aux-Bœufs. Thou hast four minutes to throw thy soul at his head.”