CLAUDE FROLLO (aside).
She shudders, quivers in my arms;
The priest has won his chance at last!
By night I bore her, once, away;
Now, in the day, I'll hold her fast!
Death, which follows in my train,
Will give her back to love again!
ESMERALDA.
Pity—pity, let me go!
Phœbus is dead; he waits above.
Alas! I tremble, I'm afraid,
I shiver at your frightful love,
E'en as the bird which, tortured, dies
Beneath the vulture's cruel eyes!
CLAUDE FROLLO.
Accept me, I love you! Refuse me no more!
Have pity for me, for yourself, I implore!
ESMERALDA.
Your prayer is an insult.
CLAUDE FROLLO.
Would you rather die?