Meanwhile the streets were momentarily becoming darker and more deserted.Curfew had rung long ago，and it was only at rare intervals that one encountered a foot-passenger in the street or a light in a window.In following the gipsy，Gringoire had become involved in that inextricable maze of alleys，lanes，and culs-de-sac which surrounds the ancient burial-ground of the Holy Innocents，and which resembles nothing so much as a skein of cotton ravelled by a kitten.
'Very illogical streets，i'faith！'said Gringoire，quite lost in the thousand windings which seemed forever to return upon themselves，but through which the girl followed a path apparently quite familiar to her，and at an increasingly rapid pace.For his part，he would have been perfectly ignorant of his whereabouts，had he not caught sight at a turning of the octagonal mass of the pillory of the Halles，the perforated top of which was outlined sharply against a solitary lighted window in the Rue Verdelet.
For some moments the girl had been aware of his presence，turning round two or three times uneasily；once，even，she had stopped short，and taking advantage of a ray of light from a half-open bakehouse door，had scanned him steadily from head to foot；then，with the little pouting grimace which Gringoire had already noticed，she had proceeded on her way.
That little moue gave Gringoire food for reflection.There certainly was somewhat of disdain and mockery in that captivating grimace.In consequence he hung his head and began to count the paving-stones，and to follow the girl at a more respectful distance.Suddenly，at a street corner which for the moment had caused him to lose sight of her，he heard her utter a piercing shriek.He hastened forward.The street was very dark，but a twist of cotton steeped in oil that burned behind an iron grating at the feet of an image of the Virgin，enabled Gringoire to descry the gipsy struggling in the arms of two men who were endeavouring to stifle her cries.The poor，frightened little goat lowered its horns and bleated piteously.
'Help！help！gentlemen of the watch！'cried Gringoire，advancing bravely.One of the men holding the girl turned towards him—it was the formidable countenance of Quasimodo.
Gringoire did not take to his heels，but neither did he advance one step.
Quasimodo came at him，dealt him a blow that hurled him four paces off on the pavement，and disappeared rapidly into the darkness，carrying off the girl hanging limply over one of his arms like a silken scarf.His companion followed him，and the poor little goat ran after them bleating piteously.
'Murder！murder！'screamed the hapless gipsy.
'Hold，villains，and drop that wench！'thundered a voice suddenly，and a horseman sprang out from a neighbouring cross-road.
It was a captain of the Royal Archers，armed cap-á-pie，and sabre in hand.
He snatched the gipsy from the grasp of the stupefied Quasimodo and laid her across his saddle；and as the redoubtable hunchback，recovered from his surprise，was about to throw himself upon him and recover his prey，fifteen or sixteen archers who had followed close upon their captain appeared，broadsword in hand.It was a detachment going the night rounds by order of M.d'Estouteville，commandant of the Provostry of Paris.
Quasimodo was instantly surrounded，seized，and bound.He roared，he foamed，he bit，and had it been daylight，no doubt his face alone，rendered still more hideous by rage，would have put the whole detachment to flight.But darkness deprived him of his most formidable weapon—his ugliness.
His companion had vanished during the struggle.
The gipsy girl sat up lightly on the officer's saddle，put her two hands on the young man's shoulders，and regarded him fixedly for several seconds，obviously charmed by his good looks and grateful for the service he had just rendered her.
She was the first to break the silence.Infusing a still sweeter tone into her sweet voice，she said：'Monsieur the Gendarme，how are you called？'
'Captain P us de Chateaupers，at your service，ma belle.'
'Thank you，'she replied；and while Monsieur the Captain was occupied in twirling his mustache á la Burguignonne，she slid from the saddle like a falling arrow and was gone—no lightning could have vanished more rapidly.
'Nombril du Pape！'swore the captain while he made them tighten Quasimodo's bonds.'I would rather have kept the girl.'
'Well，captain，'returned one of the men，'though the bird has flown，we've got the bat safe.'
Chapter 5-Sequel of the Mishap
Gringoire，stunned by his fall，lay prone upon the pavement in front of the image of Our Lady at the corner of the street.By slow degrees his senses returned，but for some moments he lay in a kind of half-somnolent state—not without its charms—in which the airy figures of the gipsy and her goat mingled strangely with the weight of Quasimodo's fist.This condition，however，was of short duration.A very lively sense of cold in that portion of his frame which was in contact with the ground woke him rudely from his dreams，and brought his mind back to the realities.
'Whence comes this coolness？'he hastily said to himself，and then he discovered that he was lying in the middle of the gutter.
'Devil take that hunchback Cyclops！'he growled as he attempted to rise.But he was still too giddy and too bruised from his fall.There was nothing for it but to lie where he was.He still had the free use of his hands，however，so he held his nose and resigned himself to his fate.
'The mud of Paris，'thought he drowsily—for he now felt pretty well convinced that he would have to put up with the kennel as a bed—'has a most potent stink.It must contain a large amount of volatile and nitric acids，which is also the opinion of M re Nicolas Flamel and of the alchemists.'
