Meanwhile， the man began to mount the ladder. Then Quasimodo saw him again distinctly. He was carrying a woman on his shoulder， a young girl dressed in white； that young girl had a noose about her neck. Quasimodo recognized her.
It was she.
The man reached the top of the ladder. There he arranged the noose. Here the priest， in order to see the better， knelt upon the balustrade.
All at once the man kicked away the ladder abruptly， and Quasimodo， who had not breathed for several moments， beheld the unhappy child dangling at the end of the rope two fathoms above the pavement， with the man squatting on her shoulders.
The rope made several gyrations on itself， and Quasimodo beheld horrible convulsions run along the gypsy's body. The priest， on his side， with outstretched neck and eyes starting from his head， contemplated this horrible group of the man and the young girl，--the spider and the fly.
At the moment when it was most horrible， the laugh of a demon， a laugh which one can only give vent to when one is no longer human， burst forth on the priest's livid face.
Quasimodo did not hear that laugh， but he saw it.
The bellringer retreated several paces behind the archdeacon， and suddenly hurling himself upon him with fury， with his huge hands he pushed him by the back over into the abyss over which Dom Claude was leaning.
The priest shrieked： "Damnation！" and fell.
The spout， above which he had stood， arrested him in his fall. He clung to it with desperate hands， and， at the moment when he opened his mouth to utter a second cry， he beheld the formidable and avenging face of Quasimodo thrust over the edge of the balustrade above his head.
Then he was silent.
The abyss was there below him. A fall of more than two hundred feet and the pavement.
In this terrible situation， the archdeacon said not a word， uttered not a groan. He merely writhed upon the spout， with incredible efforts to climb up again； but his hands had no hold on the granite， his feet slid along the blackened wall without catching fast. People who have ascended the towers of Notre-Dame know that there is a swell of the stone immediately beneath the balustrade. It was on this retreating angle that miserable archdeacon exhausted himself. He had not to deal with a perpendicular wall， but with one which sloped away beneath him.
Quasimodo had but to stretch out his hand in order to draw him from the gulf； but he did not even look at him. He was looking at the Grève. He was looking at the gallows. He was looking at the gypsy.
The deaf man was leaning， with his elbows on the balustrade， at the spot where the archdeacon had been a moment before， and there， never detaching his gaze from the only object which existed for him in the world at that moment， he remained motionless and mute， like a man struck by lightning， and a long stream of tears flowed in silence from that eye which， up to that time， had never shed but one tear.
Meanwhile， the archdeacon was panting. His bald brow was dripping with perspiration， his nails were bleeding against the stones， his knees were flayed by the wall.
He heard his cassock， which was caught on the spout， crack and rip at every jerk that he gave it. To complete his misfortune， this spout ended in a leaden pipe which bent under the weight of his body. The archdeacon felt this pipe slowly giving way. The miserable man said to himself that， when his hands should be worn out with fatigue， when his cassock should tear asunder， when the lead should give way， he would be obliged to fall， and terror seized upon his very vitals.
