CLAUDE FROLLO.
Phœbus, if you cross the threshold of that door—
PHŒBUS.
You are mad!
CLAUDE FROLLO.
You are dead!
Tremble! One of the gypsies she!
No law protects those awful places.
There love's a masquerade for hate,
Death lies concealed in their embraces.
PHŒBUS (laughing).
My dear sir, readjust your cape,
Return unto your fools' retreat!
Strange they allow you to escape!
May Esculapius, Jupiter, the Devil,
Thither conduct your straying feet!
CLAUDE FROLLO.
Truly they are faithless women;
Believe that the report speaks true.
Darkness strange and deep surrounds them;
Phœbus! there death waits for you!