We shall not attempt to convey any idea of her gestures，her accent，the tears that trickled over her lips as she spoke，her clasping，writhing hands，the heart-breaking smiles，the agonized looks，the sighs，the moans，the miserable and soul-stirring sobs she mingled with these frenzied，incoherent words.When she ceased，Tristan l'Hermite knit his brows，but it was to hide a tear that glistened in his tiger's eye.He conquered this weakness，however，and said brusquely：'It is the King's will.'
Then leaning down to Henriet Cousin's ear，he whispered hurriedly，'Do thy business quickly.'It may be that the redoubtable provost felt his heart failing him—even his.
The hangman and the sergeant accordingly entered the cell.The mother made no attempt at resistance；she only dragged herself over to her daughter and threw herself distractedly upon her.
The girl saw the soldiers advancing towards her，and the horror of death revived her senses.
'Mother！'she cried in a tone of indescribable anguish；'oh，mother！they are coming！defend me！'
'Yes，yes，dear love，I am defending thee！'answered the mother in expiring tones；and clasping her frantically in her arms，she covered her face with kisses.To see them together on the ground，the mother thus protecting her child，was a sight to wring the stoniest heart.
Henriet Cousin took hold of the gipsy girl under her beautiful shoulders.At the touch of that hand she gave a little shuddering cry and swooned.The executioner，from whose eyes big tears were dropping，would have carried her away，and sought to unclasp the mother's arms，which were tightly coiled about her daughter's waist，but she held on to her child with such an iron grasp that he found it utterly impossible to separate them.He therefore had to drag the girl out of the cell，and the mother along with her.The mother's eyes，too，were closed.
The sun rose at this moment，and already there was a considerable crowd of people in the Place looking from a distance at what was being dragged over the ground to the gibbet.For this was Tristan's way at executions.His one idea was to prevent the curious from coming too near.
There was nobody at the windows.Only，in the far distance，on the summit of that tower of Notre-Dame which looks towards the Grève，two men，their dark figures standing out black against the clear morning sky，appeared to be watching the scene.
Henriet Cousin stopped with his burden at the foot of the fatal ladder，and with faltering breath，such a pity did he think it，he passed the rope round the girl's exquisite neck.At the horrible contact of the hempen rope，the poor child opened her eyes and beheld the skeleton arm of the gibbet extended over her head.She struggled to free herself，and cried out in an agonized voice：'No！no！I will not！I will not！'The mother，whose head was buried in her daughter's robe，said no word，but a long shudder ran through her whole frame，and they could hear the frenzied kisses she bestowed upon her child.The hangman seized this moment to wrench asunder the arms clasped round the doomed girl，and whether from exhaustion or despair，they yielded.He then lifted the girl to his shoulder，where the slender creature hung limp and helpless against his uncouth head，and set foot upon the ladder to ascend.
At this moment the mother，who had sunk in a heap on the ground，opened her eyes wide.A blood-curdling look came over her face；without a word she started to her feet，and in a lightning flash flung herself，like a wild beast on its prey，on the hangman's hand，biting it to the bone.The man howled with pain；the others ran to his assistance，and with difficulty released his bleeding hand from the mother's teeth.Still she uttered no sound.They thrust her back with brutal roughness，and she fell，her head striking heavily on the stones.They raised her up；she fell back again.She was dead.
The hangman，who had kept his hold on the girl，began once more to ascend the ladder.
1 The salt tax.
Chapter 2-La Creatura Bella Bianco Vestita.—Dante
When Quasimodo saw that the cell was empty，that the gipsy girl was gone，that while he was defending her she had been carried off，he clutched his hair with both hands and stamped with surprise and grief；and then set off running，searching the Cathedral from top to bottom for his gipsy，uttering strange unearthly cries，strewing the pavement with his red hair.It was the very moment at which the King's archers forced their victorious way into Notre-Dame，likewise on the hunt for the gipsy.Poor deaf Quasimodo，never suspecting their sinister intentions（he took the truands to be the enemies of the gipsy girl），did his utmost to assist them.It was he who led Tristan l'Hermite into every possible nook and cranny，opened secret doors，double bottoms of altars，hidden sacristies.Had the unhappy girl still been there，it would have been Quasimodo himself who betrayed her into the hands of the soldiers.
When Tristan，who was not easily discouraged，gave up the search as hopeless，Quasimodo continued it alone.Twenty times，a hundred times over，did he go through the church，from end to end，from top to bottom；ascending，descending，running here，calling there，peering，searching，thrusting his head into every hole，holding up a torch under every vault，desperate，frenzied，moaning like a beast that has lost his mate.