“It appears,” said Gringoire, “that this one can also talk; but ‘tis a rude language, and he is more fortunate than I if he understands it.” Then, smiting his brow, in a sudden transition of ideas: “By the way, what the deuce did they mean this morning with their Esmeralda?”

He was minded to augment his pace, but for the third time something barred his way.

This something or, rather, some one was a blind man, a little blind fellow with a bearded, Jewish face, who, rowing away in the space about him with a stick, and towed by a large dog, droned through his nose with a Hungarian accent: “Facitote caritatem!”

“Well, now,” said Gringoire, “here’s one at last who speaks a