The cavalcade now apparently made a halt, and a distant voice could be heard saying: “This way, Messire Tristan! The priest told us we should find her at the Rat-Hole.”The tramp of horses commenced again.
The recluse started up with a cry of despair: “Fly, fly, my child! It all comes back to me now. Thou art right. They seek thy death! Horror! Malediction!—Fly!”
She thrust her head through the window, but drew it back again hastily.
“Stay where you are,”she said in a quick, terrified whisper, convulsively pressing the hand of the girl, who was already more dead than alive. “Keep still, do not breathe, there are soldiers everywhere. Thou canst not go out. It is too late.”
Her eyes were dry and burning. For a few moments she did not speak, but paced her cell with rapid steps, stopping at intervals to pluck out whole strands of her gray hair and tear them with her teeth.
“They are coming,”she said suddenly; “I will speak to them. Do thou hide in that corner. They will not see thee. I will tell them that thou hast escaped—that I let thee go!”
She carried her daughter to a corner of the cell which could not be seen from outside; made her crouch down; disposed her carefully so that neither foot nor hand came beyond the shadow; spread her long black hair round her to cover the white robe, and set up the pitcher and flag-stone, the only furniture she had, in front of her, trusting that they would conceal her. This done, finding herself calmer, she knelt down and prayed. The day, which was only just dawning, left abundant darkness still in the Rat-Hole.
At this moment the voice of the priest—that voice from hell—sounded close to the cell, crying: “This way, Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers!”
At that name, uttered by that voice, Esmeralda, cowering in her corner, made a movement.
“Do not stir!”murmured Gudule.
She had scarcely spoken before a tumultuous crowd of men and horses stopped in front of the cell. The mother rose hastily and posted herself at the loophole to cover the aperture. She beheld a strong body of armed men, horse and foot, drawn up in the Grève. Their commander dismounted and came towards her.
“Old woman,”said this man, whose face wore a repulsive expression, “we are seeking a witch to hang her. They tell us you had hold of her.”
The poor mother assumed the most unconscious air she was able.
“I do not quite take your meaning,”she answered.
“Tête-Dieu! Then what was this story of the crazy Archdeacon’s?”said Tristan. “Where is he?”
“My lord,”said one of the soldiers, “he has disappeared.”
“Go to, old hag,”the commander went on; “lie not to me. A witch was given into thy hand. What hast thou done with her?” The recluse feared to deny altogether lest she should arouse suspicion, so she answered in a truthful but surly tone:
“If you mean a strong young wench that they thrust into my hands a while ago, I can tell you that she bit me, and I let her go. That’s all I know. Leave me in peace.”