At the moment of reascending the fatal cart and moving on towards her final scene，the hapless girl was seized perhaps by some last heart-rending desire for life.She raised her dry and burning eyes to heaven，to the sun，to the silvery clouds intermingling with patches of brilliant blue，then she cast them around her，upon the ground，the people，the houses.Suddenly，while the man in yellow was pinioning her arms，she uttered a piercing cry—a cry of joy.On the balcony at the corner of the Place she had descried him—her love—her lord—her life—P us！
The judge had lied，the priest had lied—it was he indeed，she could not doubt it—he stood there alive and handsome，in his brilliant uniform，a plume on his head，a sword at his side.
'P us！'she cried，'my P us！'and she tried to stretch out her arms to him，but they were bound.
Then she saw that the captain frowned，that a beautiful girl who was leaning upon his arm looked at him with scornful lips and angry eyes；whereupon P us said some words which did not reach her ear，and they both hastily disappeared through the casement of the balcony，which immediately closed behind them.
'P us！'she cried wildly，'can it be that thou believest it？'
A monstrous thought had just suggested itself to her—she remembered that she had been condemned for murder committed on the person of P us de Chateaupers.
She had borne all till now，but this last blow was too heavy.She fell senseless to the ground.
'Come，'said Charmolue impatiently，'lift her into the cart，and let us be done with it.'
No one had yet remarked in the gallery of royal statues immediately over the arches of the doorway a strange spectator，who，until then，had observed all that passed with such absolute immobility，a neck so intently stretched，a face so distorted，that，but for his habiliments—half red，half violet—he might have been taken for one of the stone gargoyles through whose mouths the long rain-pipes of the Cathedral have emptied themselves for six hundred years.This spectator had lost no smallest detail of all that had taken place before the entrance to Notre-Dame since the hour of noon.At the very beginning，no one paying the least attention to him，he had firmly attached to one of the small columns of the gallery a stout knotted rope，the other end of which reached to the ground.This done，he had settled himself to quietly look on，only whistling from time to time as a blackbird flew past him.
Now，at the moment when the executioner's assistants were preparing to carry out Charmolue's phlegmatic order，he threw his leg over the balustrade of the gallery，seized the rope with his hands，his knees and his feet，and proceeded to slide down the face of the Cathedral like a drop of water down a window-pane；ran at the two men with the speed of a cat just dropped from a house-top，knocked the pair down with two terrific blows of his fist，picked up the gipsy in one hand as a child would a doll，and with one bound was inside the church，holding the girl high above his head as he shouted in a voice of thunder：
'Sanctuary！'
This was all accomplished with such rapidity，that had it been night the whole scene might have passed by the glare of a single flash of lightning.
'Sanctuary！Sanctuary！'roared the crowd，and the clapping of ten thousand hands made Quasimodo's single eye sparkle with joy and pride.