It is a magnificent and enchanting spectacle—and yet more so in those days—that view of Paris from the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame，in the sparkling light of a summer's dawn.It must have been a day early in July.The sky was perfectly serene；a few lingering stars，here and there，were slowly fading，and eastward，in the clearest part of the sky，hung one of great brilliancy.The sun was on the point of rising.Paris was beginning to stir，the endless variety of outline presented by its building on the eastern side showing up vividly in the singularly pure white light，while the gigantic shadow of the steeples crept from roof to roof，traversing the great city from one end to the other.Already voices and sounds were arising in several quarters of the town；here the clang of a bell，there the stroke of a hammer，elsewhere the complicated clatter of a cart in motion.The smoke from chimneys curled up here and there out of the mass of roofs，as if through the fissures of some great solfatara.The river，swirling its waters under its many bridges，round the points of innumerable islands，was diapered in shimmering silver.Around the city，outside the ramparts，the view melted into a great circle of fleecy vapour，through which the indefinite line of the plain and the soft undulation of the hills was faintly visible.All sorts of indeterminate sounds floated over the half-awakened city.In the east，a few downy white flakes，plucked from the misty mantle of the hills，fled across the sky before the morning breeze.
Down in the Parvis，some housewives，milk-pot in hand，were pointing out to one another in astonishment the extraordinary condition of the great door of Notre-Dame，and the two streams of lead congealed between the fissures of the stones.This was all that remained of the tumult of the night before.The pile kindled by Quasimodo between the towers was extinct.Tristan had already cleared the débris from the Place and thrown the bodies into the Seine.Kings like Louis XI are careful to clean the pavements with all expedition after a massacre.
Outside the balustrade of the tower，immediately underneath the spot where the priest had taken up his position，was one of those fantastically carved gargoyles which diversify the exterior of Gothic buildings，and in a crevice of it，two graceful sprigs of wall-flower in full bloom were tossing，and，as if inspired with life by the breath of the morning，made sportive salutation to each other，while from over the towers，far up in the sky，came the shrill twittering of birds.
But the priest neither saw nor heard anything of all this.He was one of those men for whom there are neither mornings，nor birds，nor flowers.In that immense horizon spread around him，in such infinite variety of aspect，his gaze was concentrated upon one single point.
Quasimodo burned to ask him what he had done with the gipsy girl；but the Archdeacon seemed at that moment altogether beyond this world.He was evidently in one of those crucial moments of life when the earth itself might fall in ruins without our perceiving it.
With his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon a certain spot，he stood motionless and silent；but in that silence and that immobility there was something so appalling that the dauntless bell-ringer shuddered at the sight，and dared not disturb him.All that he did—and it was one way of interrogating the priest—was to follow the direction of his gaze，so that in this way the eye of the poor hunchback was guided to the Place de Gréve.
Thus he suddenly discovered what the priest was looking at.A ladder was placed against the permanent gibbet；there were some people in the Place and a number of soldiers；a man was dragging along the ground something white，to which something black was clinging；the man halted at the foot of the gibbet.
Here something took place which Quasimodo could not very distinctly see；not that his eye had lost its singularly long vision，but that there was a body of soldiers in the way，which prevented him seeing everything.Moreover，at that instant the sun rose and sent such a flood of light over the horizon that it seemed as if every point of Paris—spires，chimneys，gables—were taking fire at once.
Now the man began to mount the ladder，and Quasimodo saw him again distinctly.He was carrying a female figure over his shoulder—a girlish figure in white；there was a noose round the girl's neck.Quasimodo recognised her.It was She！
The man arrived with his burden at the top of the ladder.There he arranged the noose.
At this the priest，to have a better view，placed himself on his knees on the balustrade.
Suddenly the man kicked away the ladder with his heel，and Quasimodo，who for some minutes had not drawn a breath，saw the hapless girl，with the feet of the man pressing upon her shoulders，swinging from the end of the rope，some feet from the ground.The rope made several turns upon itself，and Quasimodo beheld horrible contortions jerking the body of the gipsy girl.The priest，meanwhile，with outstretched neck and starting eyeballs，contemplated this frightful group of the man and the girl—the spider and the fly！
At the moment when the horror of the scene was at its height，a demoniacal laugh—a laugh that can only come from one who has lost all semblance of humanity—burst from the livid lips of the priest.
Quasimodo did not hear that laugh，but he saw it.Retreating a few paces behind the Archdeacon，the hunchback suddenly made a rush at him，and with his two great hands against Dom Claude's back，thrust him furiously into the abyss over which he had been leaning.
The priest screamed'Damnation！'and fell.
The stone gargoyle under the balustrade broke his fall.He clung to it with a frantic grip，and opened his mouth to utter a cry for help；but at the same moment the formidable and avenging face of Quasimodo rose over the edge of the balustrade above him—and he was silent.
