.

THE BROKEN JUG.
After having run for some time at the top of his speed, without knowing whither, knocking his head against many a street corner, leaping many a gutter, traversing many an alley, many a court, many a square, seeking flight and passage through all the meanderings of the ancient passages of the Halles, exploring in his panic terror what the fine Latin of the maps calls _tota via, cheminum et viaria_, our poet suddenly halted for lack of breath in the first place, and in the second, because he had been collared, after a fashion, by a dilemma which had just occurred to his mind.

"It strikes me, Master Pierre Gringoire," he said to himself, placing his finger to his brow, "that you are running like a madman.

The little scamps are no less afraid of you than you are of them.

It strikes me, I say, that you heard the clatter of their wooden shoes fleeing southward, while you were fleeing northward.