the
force of God.

And then, it was touching to behold this protection which had fallen
from a being so hideous upon a being so unhappy, a creature condemned to
death saved by Quasimodo. They were two extremes of natural and social
wretchedness, coming into contact and aiding each other.

Meanwhile, after several moments of triumph, Quasimodo had plunged
abruptly into the church with his burden. The populace, fond of all
prowess, sought him with their eyes, beneath the gloomy nave, regretting
that he had so speedily disappeared from their acclamations. All at
once, he was seen to re-appear at one of the extremities of the gallery
of the kings of France; he traversed it, running like a madman, raising
his conquest high in his arms and shouting: "Sanctuary!" The crowd broke
forth into fresh applause. The gallery passed, he plunged once more
into the interior of the church. A moment later, he re-appeared upon the
upper platform, with the gypsy still in his arms, still running madly,
still crying, "Sanctuary!" and the throng applauded. Finally, he made
his appearance for the third time upon the summit of the tower where
hung the great bell; from that point he seemed to be showing to the
entire city the girl whom he had saved, and his voice of thunder, that
voice which was so rarely heard, and which he never heard himself,
repeated thrice with frenzy, even to the clouds: "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Sanctuary!"

"Noel! Noel!" shouted the populace in its turn; and that immense
acclamation flew to astonish the crowd assembled at the Greve on the
other bank, and the recluse who was still waiting with her eyes riveted
on the gibbet.

BOOK NINTH.

CHAPTER I. DELIRIUM.

Claude Frollo was no longer in Notre-Dame when his adopted son so
abruptly cut the fatal web in which the archdeacon and the gypsy were
entangled. On returning to the sacristy he had torn off his alb, cope,
and stole, had flung all into the hands of the stupefied beadle, had
made his escape through the private door of the cloister, had ordered a
boatman of the Terrain to transport him to the left bank of the Seine,
and had plunged into the hilly streets of the University, not knowing
whither he was going, encountering at every step groups of men and women
who were hurrying joyously towards the Pont Saint-Michel, in the hope
of still arriving in time to see the witch hung there,--pale, wild, more
troubled, more blind and more fierce than a n