They rapidly descended the stairs of the towers，crossed the church，which was dark and totally deserted but echoing with the frightful uproar without，and issued by the Porte Rouge into the court-yard of the cloister.The cloister was deserted，the clergy having taken refuge in the bishop's house，there to offer up their prayers together.The court-yard was empty save for a few terrified lackeys crouching in the darkest corners.They made their way to the small door leading out of the court-yard to the Terrain.The man in black opened it with a key he carried with him.Our readers are aware that the Terrain was a tongue of land enclosed by walls on the side next the city，belonging to the chapter of Notre-Dame，and forming the end of the island on the east，behind the church.They found this enclosure perfectly solitary.Here，even the noise in the air was sensibly less，the clamour of the assault reaching their ears confusedly and deadened.They could now hear the rustling of the leaves of the solitary tree planted at the point of the Terrain as the fresh breeze swept up from the river.Nevertheless，they were still very close to danger.The buildings nearest them were the bishop's residence and the church.There were visible signs of great confusion within the bishop's residence.Its dark mass was streaked with lights flitting from window to window，just as after burning a piece of paper，bright sparks run in a thousand fantastic lines across the dark mound of ashes.Beside it，the huge black towers of Notre-Dame rearing themselves over the long nave，sharply outlined against the vast red glow which filled the Parvis，looked like the gigantic andirons of some Cyclopean fire-place.
What was visible of Paris on all sides seemed to float in a mingled atmosphere of light and shadow，such as Rembrandt has in some of his backgrounds.
The man with the lantern walked straight to the point of the Terrain where，at the extreme edge of the water，were the decaying remains of a fence of stakes interlaced with laths，on which a low vine had spread its few starveling branches like the fingers of an open hand.Behind it，in the shadow of the fence，a little boat lay moored.The man motioned Gringoire and his companion to enter，and the goat jumped in after them.The man himself got in last.He cut the rope of the boat，pushed off from the shore with a long boat-hook，and seizing a pair of oars，seated himself in the bow and rowed with all his might out into mid-stream.The Seine runs very strong at this part，and he had considerable difficulty in clearing the point of the island.
Gringoire's first care，on entering the boat，was to take the goat upon his knees.He settled himself in the stern，and the girl，whom the unknown man inspired with indefinable uneasiness，seated herself as close as possible to the poet.
As soon as our philosopher felt the boat in motion，he clapped his hands and kissed Djali between her horns.
'Oh！'he cried，'now we are safe，all four of us！'and added with the air of a profound thinker：'We are indebted sometimes to fortune，sometimes to strategy，for the happy issue of a great undertaking.'
The boat was making its way slowly across to the right bank.The gipsy girl regarded their unknown companion with secret terror.He had carefully shut off the light of his dark-lantern，and was now only dimly perceptible in the bow of the boat，like a shadowy phantom.His hood，which was still pulled down，formed a kind of mask to his face，and each time that in rowing he opened his arms，his long hanging black sleeves gave them the appearance of enormous bat's wings.As yet he had breathed not a word.There was no sound in the boat but the regular splash of the oars and the rippling of the water against the sides of the skiff.
'Upon my soul！'suddenly exclaimed Gringoire，'we are as lively as a company of horned-owls！We observe a silence of Pythagoreans or of fishes！Pasque-Dieu！my friends，I wish that some one would converse with me.The human voice is music in the human ear.That is not my own saying，but of Didymus of Alexandria，and an illustrious saying it is！Certes，Didymus of Alexandria was no mediocre philosopher.One word，my pretty one—only one word，I entreat you.By the way，you used to make a droll little grimace，peculiar to yourself；do you make it still？You must know，my dear，that the Parliament has full jurisdiction over all places of sanctuary，and that you were in great peril in that little cell of yours in Notre-Dame？The little trochilus builds its nest in the crocodile's jaws.Master，here's the moon appearing again.If they only do not catch sight of us！We are performing a laudable act in saving mademoiselle，and yet they would string us up in the King's name if they were to catch us.Alas，that every human action should have two handles！They blame in me what they crown in thee.One man admires Csar，and abuses Catiline.Is that not so，master？What say you to this philosophy？I possess the philosophy of instinct，of nature，ut apes geometriam.What，no answer from anybody？You are both，it seems，in a very churlish mood！
