She seized his bald head in both hands by the hairs which remained, and strove to prevent his kisses as if they had been bites.
“Mercy!”repeated the unfortunate man. “If you knew what my love for you is! It is fire, molten lead, a thousand knives driven into my heart!”
And he held her arms with superhuman strength. She cried desperately: “Release me, or I shall spit in your face!”
He released her. “Degrade me, strike me, do your worst! do what you will! but have mercy! love me!”
Then she struck him with the impotent fury of a child. She clinched her lovely hands to bruise his face. “Demon, begone!”
“Love me! love me! have pity!” cried the poor priest, clasping her, and returning her blows with caresses.
All at once she felt him stronger than she.
“No more of this!” he exclaimed, gnashing his teeth.
She lay conquered, crushed, and quivering in his arms, at his mercy. She felt a wanton hand wandering over her. She made one last effort, and shrieked: “Help! help! a vampire! a vampire!”
No one came. Djali alone was awakened, and bleated piteously.
“Silence!” said the panting priest.
Suddenly, in her struggle, as she fought upon the floor, the gipsy’s hand encountered something cold and metallic. It was Quasimodo’s whistle. She seized it with a convulsion of hope, raised it to her lips, and blew with all her remaining strength. The whistle gave forth a sharp, shrill, piercing sound.
“What is that?” said the priest.
Almost as he spoke he felt himself grasped by a vigorous arm. The cell was dark; he could not distinguish exactly who held him; but he heard teeth chattering with rage, and there was just enough light mingled with the darkness for him to see the broad blade of a knife gleam above his head.
He thought he recognized the figure of Quasimodo. He supposed that it could be no other. He remembered having stumbled, as he entered, over a bundle lying across the outside of the door. But as the new-comer did not utter a word, he knew not what to think. He flung himself upon the arm which held the knife, crying. “Quasimodo!” He forgot, in this moment of distress, that Quasimodo was deaf.
In the twinkling of an eye the priest was stretched on the floor, and felt a heavy knee pressed against his breast. By the angular imprint of that knee, he knew Quasimodo; but what was he to do? How was he also to be recognized by the hunchback? Night made the deaf man blind.
He was lost. The young girl, pitiless as an enraged tigress, did not interpose to save him. The knife came nearer his head; it was a critical moment. All at once his adversary appeared to hesitate.
“No blood upon her!” said he, in a dull voice.
It was indeed the voice of Quasimodo.
Then the priest felt a huge hand drag him from the cell by the heels; he was not to die within those walls. Luckily for him, the moon had risen some moments before.
When they crossed the threshold, its pale rays fell upon the priest. Quasimodo looked him in the face, trembled, relaxed his hold, and shrank back.
The gipsy, who had advanced to the door of her cell, saw with surprise that the actors had suddenly changed parts. It was now the priest who threatened, and Quasimodo who implored.
The priest, who was overwhelming the deaf man with gestures of wrath and reproach, violently signed him to withdraw.
The deaf man bowed his head, then knelt before the gipsy’s door. “My lord,” said he, in grave, submissive tones, “do what you will afterwards; but kill me first!”
So saying, he offered his knife to the priest. The priest, beside himself with rage, rushed upon him. But the young girl was quicker than he. She tore the knife from Quasimodo’s hands, and uttered a frenzied laugh.
“Approach now!” she cried.
She held the blade high above her head. The priest stood irresolute. She would certainly have struck.
“You dare not touch me now, coward!” she exclaimed.
Then she added with a pitiless look, and knowing that her words would pierce the priest’s heart like a thousand red-hot irons,— “Ah, I know that Ph?bus is not dead!”
The priest threw Quasimodo to the ground with a kick, and rushed down the stairs quivering with rage.
When he had gone, Quasimodo picked up the whistle which had just saved the gipsy.
“It was getting rusty,” said he, returning it to her; then he left her alone.
The young girl, overcome by this violent scene, fell exhausted on her bed and burst into a flood of tears. Her horizon was again becoming overcast.
The priest, on his side, groped his way back to his cell.