“Yes,”said Gringoire, speaking to himself and rubbing his nose with his forefinger in sign of deep cogitation; “that’s it! The vagabonds are good-hearted fellows! The tribe of Egypt loves her. They will rise at a word. Nothing easier. A surprise—and under cover of the disorder, carry her off— perfectly easily! This very next night. Nothing would please them better.”

“The plan—speak!”said the priest, shaking him.

Gringoire turned to him majestically.

“Let me be! see you not that I am composing?”He ruminated again for a few moments, then began to clap his hands at his thought. “Admirable!”he cried, “an assured success!”

“The plan!”repeated Claude, enraged.

Gringoire was radiant. “Hist!”said he, “let me tell it you in a whisper. ’Tis a counterplot that’s really brilliant, and will get us all clear out of the affair. Pardieu! you must admit that I’m no fool.”

He stopped short. “Ah, but the little goat—is she with the girl?”

“Yes—yes—devil take thee! go on!”

“They would hang her too, would they not?”

“What’s that to me?”

“Yes, they would hang her. They hanged a sow last month, sure enough. The hangman likes that—he eats the beast afterward. Hang my pretty Djali! Poor sweet lamb!”

“A murrain on thee!”cried Dom Claude. “ ’Tis thou art the hangman. What plan for saving her hast thou found, rascal? Must thou be delivered of thy scheme with the forceps?”

“Gently, master. This is it.”Gringoire bent to the Archdeacon’s ear and spoke very low, casting an anxious glance up and down the street, in which, however, there was not a soul to be seen. When he had finished, Dom Claude touched his hand and said coldly: “ ’Tis well. Till to-morrow, then.”

“Till to-morrow,”repeated Gringoire, and while the Archdeacon retreated in one direction, he went off in the other, murmuring to himself: “This is a nice business, M. Pierre Gringoire! Never mind, it’s not to say because one’s of small account one need be frightened at a great undertaking. Biton carried a great bull on his shoulders; wagtails and linnets cross the ocean.”