Gringoire dared neither breathe nor raise his eyes.

“Hombre, quita tu sombrero!” said one of the three knaves, in whose grasp he was, and, before he had comprehended the meaning, the other had snatched his hat — a wretched headgear, it is true, but still good on a sunny day or when there was but little rain. Gringoire sighed.

Meanwhile the king addressed him, from the summit of his cask, —

“Who is this rogue?”

Gringoire shuddered.

That voice, although accentuated by menace, recalled to him another voice, which, that very morning, had dealt the deathblow to his mystery, by drawling, nasally, in the midst of the audience, “Charity,