LITTLE SWORD IN POCKET.
On from the Bastille, Gringoire the Rue Saint-Antoine with the of a horse. On at the Baudoyer gate, he walked to the which rose in the middle of that place, as though he were able to in the the of a man and in black, who was seated on the steps of the cross.
“Is it you, master?” said Gringoire.
The in black rose.
“Death and passion! You make me boil, Gringoire. The man on the tower of Saint-Gervais has just half-past one o’clock in the morning.”
“Oh,” Gringoire, “’tis no fault of mine, but of the watch and the king. I have just had a narrow escape. I always just miss being hung. ’Tis my predestination.”
“You everything,” said the other. “But come quickly. Have you the password?”
“Fancy, master, I have the king. I come from him. He breeches. ’Tis an adventure.”
“Oh! of words! what is your to me! Have you the of the outcasts?”
“I have it. Be at ease. ‘Little in pocket.’”
“Good. Otherwise, we not make our way as as the church. The the streets. Fortunately, it that they have resistance. We may still arrive in time.”
“Yes, master, but how are we to into Notre-Dame?”
“I have the key to the tower.”
“And how are we to out again?”
“Behind the there is a little door which opens on the Terrain and the water. I have taken the key to it, and I a there this morning.”
“I have had a from being hung!” Gringoire repeated.
“Eh, quick! come!” said the other.
Both the city with long strides.
