ch were mingled all tongues, all
dialects, all accents. The death of the poor scholar imparted a furious
ardor to that crowd. It was seized with shame, and the wrath of having
been held so long in check before a church by a hunchback. Rage found
ladders, multiplied the torches, and, at the expiration of a few
minutes, Quasimodo, in despair, beheld that terrible ant heap mount on
all sides to the assault of Notre-Dame. Those who had no ladders had
knotted ropes; those who had no ropes climbed by the projections of
the carvings. They hung from each other's rags. There were no means of
resisting that rising tide of frightful faces; rage made these fierce
countenances ruddy; their clayey brows were dripping with sweat; their
eyes darted lightnings; all these grimaces, all these horrors laid siege
to Quasimodo. One would have said that some other church had despatched
to the assault of Notre-Dame its gorgons, its dogs, its drees, its
demons, its most fantastic sculptures. It was like a layer of living
monsters on the stone monsters of the facade.

Meanwhile, the Place was studded with a thousand torches. This scene of
confusion, till now hid in darkness, was suddenly flooded with light.
The parvis was resplendent, and cast a radiance on the sky; the bonfire
lighted on the lofty platform was still burning, and illuminated the
city far away. The enormous silhouette of the two towers, projected afar
on the roofs of Paris, and formed a large notch of black in this light.
The city seemed to be aroused. Alarm bells wailed in the distance.
The vagabonds howled, panted, swore, climbed; and Quasimodo, powerless
against so many enemies, shuddering for the gypsy, beholding the furious
faces approaching ever nearer and nearer to his gallery, entreated
heaven for a miracle, and wrung his arms in despair.

CHAPTER V. THE RETREAT IN WHICH MONSIEUR LOUIS OF FRANCE SAYS HIS
PRAYERS.

The reader has not, perhaps, forgotten that one moment before catching
sight of the nocturnal band of vagabonds, Quasimodo, as he inspected
Paris from the heights of his bell tower, perceived only one light
burning, which gleamed like a star from a window on the topmost story
of a lofty edifice beside the Porte Saint-Antoine. This edifice was the
Bastille. That star was the candle of Louis XI. King Louis XI. had, in
fact, been two days in Paris. He was to take his departure on the next
day but one for his citadel of Montilz-les-Tours. He made but sel