Gringoire put out his hand for the little bag, but she drew back. “Do not touch it! It is an amulet, and either you will do mischief to the charm, or it will hurt you.”

The poet’s curiosity became more and more lively. “Who gave it you?”

She laid a finger on her lips and hid the amulet again in her bosom. He tried her with further questions, but she scarcely answered.

“What does the word Esmeralda mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“What language is it?”

“Egyptian, I think.”

“I thought as much,” said Gringoire. “You are not a native of this country?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you father or mother?”

She began singing to an old air:

“Very good,” said Gringoire. “How old were you when you came to France?”

“Quite little.”

“And to Paris?”

“Last year. As we came through the Porte Papale I saw the reed linnet fly overhead. It was the end of August; I said, It will be a hard winter.”

“And so it was,” said Gringoire, delighted at this turn in the conversation. “I spent it in blowing on my fingers. So you have the gift of prophecy?”

She lapsed again into her laconic answers—“No.”

“That man whom you call the Duke of Egypt, is he the head of your tribe?”

“Yes.”

“Well, but it was he who united us in marriage,” observed the poet timidly.

She made her favourite little grimace. “Why, I don’t even know your name!”

“My name? If you wish to know it, here it is—Pierre Gringoire.”

“I know a finer one than that,” said she.

“Ah, cruel one!” responded the poet. “Never mind, you cannot provoke me. See, perhaps you will like me when you know me better; besides, you have told me your story with so much confidence that it is only fair that I should tell you something of mine. You must know, then, that my name is Pierre Gringoire,