Beneath him was the abyss，a fall of full two hundred feet and the pavement.In this dreadful situation the Archdeacon said not a word，breathed not a groan.He writhed upon the gargoyle，making incredible efforts to climb up it；but his hand slipped on the smooth granite，his feet scraped the blackened wall without gaining a foothold.Those who have ascended the towers of Note-Dame know that the stone-work swells out immediately beneath the balustrade.It was on the retreating curve of this ridge that the wretched priest was exhausting his efforts.It was not even with a perpendicular wall that he was contending，but with one that sloped away under him.
Quasimodo had only to stretch out a hand to draw him out of the gulf，but he never so much as looked at him.He was absorbed in watching the Grève；watching the gibbet；watching the gipsy girl.
The hunchback was leaning，with his elbows on the balustrade，in the very place where the Archdeacon had been a moment before；and there，keeping his eye fixed on the only object that existed for him at that moment，he stood mute and motionless as a statue，save for the long stream of tears that flowed from that eye which，until then，had never shed but one.
Meanwhile the Archdeacon panted and struggled，drops of agony pouring from his bald forehead，his nails torn and bleeding on the stones，his knees grazed against the wall.He heard his soutane，which had caught on a projection of the stone rain-pipe，tear away at each movement he made.To complete his misfortune，the gutter itself ended in a leaden pipe which he could feel slowly bending under the weight of his body，and the wretched man told himself that when his hands should be worn out with fatigue，when his cassock should be rent asunder，when that leaden pipe should be completely bent，he must of necessity fall，and terror gripped his vitals.Once or twice he had wildly looked down upon a sort of narrow ledge formed，some ten feet below him，by the projection of the sculpture，and he implored Heaven，from the bottom of his agonized soul，to be allowed to spend the remainder of his life on that space of two feet square，though it were to last a hundred years.Once he ventured to look down into the Place，but when he lifted his head again his eyes were closed and his hair stood erect.
There was something appalling in the silence of these two men.While the Archdeacon hung in agony but a few feet below him，Quasimodo gazed upon the Place de Grève and wept.
The Archdeacon，finding that his struggles to raise himself only served to bend the one feeble point of support that remained to him，at length resolved to remain still.There he hung，clinging to the rain-pipe，scarcely drawing breath，with no other motion but the mechanical contractions of the body we feel in dreams when we imagine we are falling.His eyes were fixed and wide in a stare of pain and bewilderment.Little by little he felt himself going；his fingers slipped upon the stone；he was conscious more and more of the weakness of his arm and the weight of his body；the piece of lead strained ever farther downward.
Beneath him—frightful vision—he saw the sharp roof of Saint-Jean-le-Rond，like a card bent double.One by one he looked at the impassive sculptured figures round the tower，suspended，like himself，over the abyss，but without terror for themselves or pity for him.All about him was stone—the grinning monsters before his eyes；below，in the Place，the pavement；over his head，Quasimodo.
Down in the Parvis a group of worthy citizens were staring curiously upward，and wondering what madman it could be amusing himself after so strange a fashion.The priest could hear them say，for their voices rose clear and shrill in the quiet air：'He will certainly break his neck！'
Quasimodo was weeping.
At length the priest，foaming with impotent rage and terror，felt that all was unavailing，but gathered what strength still remained to him for one final effort.He drew himself up by the gutter，thrust himself out from the wall by both knees，dug his hands in a cleft of the stone-work，and managed to scramble up about one foot higher；but the force he was obliged to use made the leaden beak that supported him bend suddenly downward，and the strain rent his cassock through.Then，finding everything giving way under him，having only his benumbed and powerless hands by which to cling to anything，the wretched man closed his eyes，loosened his hold，and dropped.
Quasimodo watched him falling.A fall from such a height is rarely straight.The priest launched into space，fell at first head downward and his arms outstretched，then turned over on himself several times.The wind drove him against the roof of a house，where the unhappy man got his first crashing shock.He was not dead，however，and the hunchback saw him grasp at the gable to save himself；but the slope was too sheer，his strength was exhausted：he slid rapidly down the roof，like a loosened tile，and rebounded on to the pavement.There he lay motionless at last.
Quasimodo returned his gaze to the gipsy girl，whose body，dangling in its white robe from the gibbet，he beheld from afar quivering in the last agonies of death；then he let it drop once more on the Archdeacon，lying in a shapeless heap at the foot of the tower，and with a sigh that heaved his deep chest，he murmured：'Oh！all that I have ever loved！'
Chapter 3-The Marriage of Phbus
Towards the evening of that day，when the bishop's officers of justice came to remove the shattered remains of the Archdeacon from the Parvis，Quasimodo had disappeared.
