'Churches have been known to defend themselves thus，'he observed with a sigh.'Saint-Sophia in Constantinople，forty years ago，threw down the crescent of Mahomet three times running just by shaking her domes，which are her heads.William of Paris，who built this one，was a magician.'
'Are we then to slink away pitifully with our tails between our legs？'cried Clopin.'Leave our sister here for these cowled wolves to hang to-morrow？'
'And the sacristy where there are cart-loads of treasure！'added a Vagabond，of whose name，to our great regret，we are ignorant.
'By the beard of Mahomet！'exclaimed Trouillefou.
'Let's have another try，'suggested the truand.
But Mathias Hungadi shook his head.'We shall never get in by that door.We must find some joint in the enchanted armour.A hole，a postern door，a chink of some kind.'
'Who's with me？'said Clopin.'I am going back.By-the-bye，where's the little scholar Jehan？'
'He's dead，no doubt，'answered some one，'for one does not hear his laugh.'
The King of Tunis frowned gloomily.
''Tis a pity.There was a stout heart under that rattling armour.And Master Pierre Gringoire？'
'Captain Clopin，'said Andry le Rouge，'he made off before we got as far as the Pont-aux-Changeurs.'
Clopin stamped his foot.'Gueule-Dieu！'tis he that thrust us into this business，and now he leaves us in the very thick of it.A prating poltroon！'
'Captain Clopin，'announced Andry le Rouge，who had been looking down the Rue du Parvis，'here comes the little scholar.'
'Praised be Pluto！'said Clopin.'But what the devil is he dragging after him？'
It was，in truth，Jehan，coming along as quickly as his cumbrous paladin accoutrements would permit of，with a long ladder，which he tugged stoutly over the pavement，more breathless than an ant harnessed to a blade of grass twenty times her own length.
'Victory！Te Deum！'shouted the scholar.'Here's the ladder from the Saint-Landry wharf.'
Clopin went up to him.'Little one，'said he，'what art thou going to do with that ladder，corne-Dieu？'
'I've secured it，'answered Jehan panting.'I knew where it was—under the shed of the lieutenant's house.There's a girl there whom I know—she thinks me a very Cupido for beauty.It was through her I managed to get the ladder，and here I am，Pasque-Mahom！The poor soul came out in her smock to let me in.'
'Yes，yes，'said Clopin，'but what wilt thou do with this ladder？'
Jehan gave him a sly，knowing look and snapped his fingers like castanets.He was sublime at this moment.He had on his head one of those overloaded helmets of the fifteenth century which struck terror to the heart of the foe by their monstrous-looking crests.Jehan's bristled with ten iron beaks，so that he might have contended with the Homeric ship of Nestor for the epithet of dekemboloV.
'What do I mean to do with it，august King of Tunis？Do you see that row of statues with the faces of imbeciles over there above the three arches of the doorway？'
'Yes；what of them？'
'That is the gallery of the King of France.'
'Well，what's that to us？'said Clopin.
'You shall see.At the end of that gallery there is a door that is closed with a latch；with this ladder I reach that door，and then I'm in the church.'
'Let me go up first，child.'
'No，comrade，the ladder's mine.Come on—you shall be second.'
'Beelzebub strangle thee！'said Clopin sulkily.'I will be second to nobody.'
'Then，Clopin，go fetch thyself a ladder.'And Jehan set off running across the Place，dragging his ladder after him and shouting，'Follow，boys！'
In an instant the ladder was set up and placed against the balustrade of the lower gallery over one of the side doors.The crowd of beggars，shouting and hustling，pressed round the foot of it wanting to ascend；but Jehan maintained his right，and was the first to set foot on the steps of the ladder.The ascent was pretty long.The gallery of the kings is，at this day，about sixty feet from the ground；but at that period it was raised still higher by the eleven steps of the entrance.
Jehan ascended slowly，much encumbered by his heavy armour，one hand on the ladder，the other grasping his crossbow.When he was half-way up he cast a mournful glance over the poor dead Argotiers heaped on the steps.'Alas！'said he，'here are corpses enough for the fifth canto of the Iliad！'He continued his ascent，the Vagabonds following him，one on every step of the ladder.To see that line of mailed backs rising and undulating in the dark，one might have taken it for a serpent with steely scales rearing itself on end to attack the church，and the whistling of Jehan，who represented its head，completed the illusion.
The scholar at last reached the parapet of the gallery，and strode lightly over it amid the applause of the whole truandry.Finding himself thus master of the citadel，he uttered a joyful shout—and then stopped short，petrified.He had just caught sight，behind one of the royal statues，of Quasimodo crouching in the gloom，his eye glittering ominously.
Before another of the besiegers had time to gain a footing on the gallery，the redoubtable hunchback sprang to the head of the ladder，seized without a word the ends of the two uprights in his powerful hands，heaved them away from the wall，let the long and pliant ladder，packed with truands from top to bottom，sway for a moment amid a sudden outcry of fear，then suddenly，with superhuman force，flung back this living cluster into the Place.For an instant the stoutest heart quailed.The ladder thrust backward stood upright for a moment，swayed，then suddenly，describing a frightful arc of eighty feet in radius，crashed down upon the pavement with its living load more rapidly than a drawbridge when its chain gives way.There was one universal imprecation，then silence，and a few mutilated wretches were seen crawling out from among the heap of dead.
