On this there began a strange dialogue between the two of signs and gestures，for neither of them uttered a word：the priest standing angry，menacing，masterful；Quasimodo prostrate before him，humbled and suppliant；and yet Quasimodo could certainly have crushed the priest with his finger and thumb.
At last，with a rough shake of the dwarf's powerful shoulder，the Archdeacon made him a sign to rise and follow him.
Quasimodo rose to his feet.
At this the Fraternity of Fools，the first stupor of surprise passed，prepared to defend their Pope thus rudely dethroned，while the Egyptians，the Argotiers，and the Basoche in a body closed yelping round the priest.
But Quasimodo，placing himself in front of the Archdeacon，brought the muscles of his brawny fists into play and faced the assailants with the snarl of an angry tiger.
The priest，returned to his gloomy gravity，signed to Quasimodo and withdrew in silence，the hunchback walking before him and scattering the crowd in his passage.
When they had made their way across the Place the curious and idle rabble made as if to follow，whereupon Quasimodo took up his position in the rear and followed the Archdeacon，facing the crowd，thick-set，snarling，hideous，shaggy，ready for a spring，gnashing his tusks，growling like a wild beast，and causing wild oscillations in the crowd by a mere gesture or a look.
So they were allowed to turn unhindered into a dark and narrow street，where no one ventured to follow them，so effectually was the entrance barred by the mere image of Quasimodo and his gnashing fangs.
'A most amazing incident！'said Gringoire；'but where the devil am I to find a supper？'
1 A kiss brings pain.
2 Nun of the Order of the Sack，or of the Penitence of Christ.
3 A chest richly decorated They found in a well，And in it new banners With figures most terrifying.
4 Arab horsemen they are，Looking like statues，With swords，and over their shoulders Cross-bows that shoot well.
5 A primitive stringed instrument of negro origin.
Chapter 4-The Mishaps Consequent on Following a Pretty Woman Through the Streets at Night
At a venture，Gringoire set off to follow the gipsy girl.He had seen her and her goat turn into the Rue de la Coutellerie，so he too turned down the Rue de la Coutellerie.
'Why not？'said he to himself.
Now，Gringoire，being a practical philosopher of the streets of Paris，had observed that nothing is more conducive to pleasant reverie than to follow a pretty woman without knowing where she is going.There is in this voluntary abdication of one's free-will，in this subordination of one's whim to that of another person who is totally unconscious of one's proceedings，a mixture of fanciful independence and blind obedience，an indefinable something between slavery and ******* which appealed to Gringoire，whose mind was essentially mixed，vacillating，and complex，touching in turn all extremes，hanging continually suspended between all human propensities，and letting one neutralize the other.He was fond of comparing himself to Mahomet's coffin，attracted equally by two loadstones，and hesitating eternally between heaven and earth，between the roof and the pavement，between the fall and the ascension，between the zenith and the nadir.
Had Gringoire lived in our day，how admirably he would have preserved the golden mean between the classical and the romantic.But he was not primitive enough to live three hundred years，a fact much to be deplored；his absence creates a void only too keenly felt in these days.
For the rest，nothing disposes one more readily to follow passengers through the streets—especially female ones，as Gringoire had a weakness for doing—than not to know where to find a bed.
He therefore walked all pensively after the girl，who quickened her pace，****** her pretty little goat trot beside her，as she saw the townsfolk going home，and the taverns—the only shops that had been open that day—preparing to close.
'After all，'he thought，'she must lodge somewhere—gipsy women are kind-hearted—who knows…？'
And he filled in the asterisks which followed this discreet break with I know not what engaging fancies.
Meanwhile，from time to time，as he passed the last groups of burghers closing their doors，he caught scraps of their conversation which broke the charmed spell of his happy imaginings.
Now it was two old men accosting each other：
'M re Thibaut Fernicle，do you know that it is very cold？'（Gringoire had known it ever since the winter set in.）
'You are right there，M re Boniface Disome.Are we going to have another winter like three years ago，in'80，when wood cost eight sols a load？'
'Bah，M re Thibaut！it is nothing to the winter of 1407—when there was frost from Martinmas to Candlemas，and so sharp that at every third word the ink froze in the pen of the registrar of the parliament，which interrupted the recording of the judgments—'
Farther on were two gossips at their windows with candles that spluttered in the foggy air.
'Has your husband told you of the accident，Mlle.La Boudraque？'
'No；what is it，Mlle.Turquant？'
'Why，the horse of M.Gilles Godin，notary at the Chatelet，was startled by the Flemings and their procession and knocked down M re Phillipot Avrillot，a Celestine lay-brother.'
'Is that so？'
'Yes，truly.'
'Just an ordinary horse too！That's rather too bad.If it had been a cavalry horse，now！'
And the windows were shut again；but not before Gringoire had lost the thread of his ideas.
Fortunately he soon picked it up again，and had no difficulty in resuming it，thanks to the gipsy and to Djali，who continued to walk before him—two graceful，delicate creatures，whose small feet，pretty forms，and engaging ways he admired exceedingly，almost confounding them in his contemplation：regarding them for their intelligence and good fellowship both as girls，while for their sure-footed，light and graceful gait，they might both have been goats.