There she is! There she is! It is she--Esmeralda! CLAUDE FROLLO (_aside_). It is she! oh, yes--'tis she! Wherefore, relentless fate, Made you her so beautiful, Me--so unfortunate? [_She reaches the center of the stage. The Vagrants form an admiring circle around her._ ESMERALDA. An orphan am I, Child of woe, To you I turn And flowers throw! In my wild joy Sad sighs abide; I show a smile, The tears I hide. Poor girl--I dance Where brooklets run, As chirp the birds My song flows on: I am the dove Which, hurt, must fall; Over my cradle Hangs death's pall. CHORUS. Young girl, dance on! More gentle you make us. Take us for family, And play with us, As stoops the nightingale Unto the sea, Teasing its waves To ecstasy. 'Tis the young girl-- Child of woe, When beams her eye Grief must go. She's like the bee Which trembling flies To the flower's heart, Its Paradise. Young girl, dance on! More gentle you make us. Take us for family, And play with us! CLAUDE FROLLO (_aside_). Tremble, young girl-- The priest is jealous. [_Claude attempts to draw near to Esmeralda; she turns away from him with a kind of horror. The procession of the Pope of Fools enters. Torches, lanterns and music. In the middle of the procession, upon a litter surrounded with candles, Quasimodo, decked with cope and miter, is carried._ CHORUS. Salute him, clerks of Vasoche! Shell-heaps, lubbers, beggars! Salute him, all of you! He comes. Behold the Pope of Fools! CLAUDE FROLLO (_perceiving Quasimodo, and starting toward him with a gesture of anger_). Quasimodo! What a strange part to play! Profanation! Here--Quasimodo! QUASIMODO. Great God! what do I hear? CLAUDE FROLLO. Come here, I tell you. QUASIMODO (_jumping from the litter_). Here I am! CLAUDE FROLLO. Be anathematized! QUASIMODO. God! it is himself! CLAUDE FROLLO. Outrageous audacity! QUASIMODO. Moment of terror. CLAUDE FROLLO. To your knees, traitor! QUASIMODO. Pardon me, Master! CLAUDE FROLLO. No! I am a priest. [_Claude Frollo tears off Quasimodo's pontifical ornaments, and crushes them underfoot. The Vagrants begin to murmur; they form menacing groups around him; he looks at them angrily._ THE VAGRANTS. He threatens us, O comrades! Here in this place, Where we reign. QUASIMODO. What means the audacity Of these robbers? They menace him, But we shall see! CLAUDE FROLLO. Race unclean, You menace me. Robbers--Jews-- But we shall see! [_The anger of The Vagrants bursts forth._ THE VAGRANTS. Stop! stop! stop! Down with the mar-joy! He shall pay for it with his head; In vain he defends himself. QUASIMODO. Have respect for his head. Let every one cease, Or I change this festival To a bloody battle. CLAUDE FROLLO. It is not about his head That Frollo is troubled. [_Puts his hand on his heart._ There is the tempest, There is the battle!