“No, sire, there is a mistake.

‘Tis a fatality. I make tragedies. Sire, I entreat your majesty to listen to me. I am a poet. ‘Tis the melancholy way of men of my profession to roam the streets by night. I was passing there. It was mere chance. I was unjustly arrested; I am innocent of this civil tempest. Your majesty sees that the vagabond did not recognize me. I conjure your majesty — “

“Hold your tongue!” said the king, between two swallows of his ptisan. “You split our head!”

Tristan l’Hermite advanced and pointing to Gringoire, —

“Sire, can this one be hanged also?”

This was the first word that he had uttered.