The sore upon his arm had already disappeared.
He held in his hand one of those whips made of thongs of white leather, which police sergeants then used to repress the crowd, and which were called _boullayes_.

On his head he wore a sort of headgear, bound round and closed at the top.

But it was difficult to make out whether it was a child's cap or a king's crown, the two things bore so strong a resemblance to each other.
Meanwhile Gringoire, without knowing why, had regained some hope, on recognizing in the King of the Cour des Miracles his accursed mendicant of the Grand Hall.
"Master," stammered he; "monseigneur--sire--how ought I to address you ?" he said at length, having reached the culminating point of his crescendo, and knowing neither how to mount higher, nor to descend again.
"Monseigneur, his majesty, or comrade, call me what you please.

But make haste.

What have you to say in your own defence ?" "In your own defence ?" thought Gringoire, "that displeases me." He resumed, stuttering, "I am he, who this morning--" "By the devil's claws!" interrupted Clopin, "your name, knave, and nothing more.Listen.You are in the presence of three powerful sovereigns: myself, Clopin Trouillefou, King of Thunes, successor to the Grand Coesre, supreme suzerain of the Realm of Argot; Mathias Hunyadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt and of Bohemia, the old yellow fellow whom you see yonder, with a dish clout round his head; Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of Galilee, that fat fellow who is not listening to us but caressing a wench.