The Archdeacon then rose and hastened at the top of his speed towards Notre-Dame，the huge towers of which he could see rising through the gloom above the houses.
But when he reached the Parvis，breathless and panting，he dared not lift his eyes to the baleful edifice.
'Oh，'he murmured，'can it really be that such a thing took place here to-day—this very morning？'
He presently ventured a glance at the church.Its front was dark.The sky behind glittered with stars；the crescent moon，in her flight upward from the horizon，that moment touched the summit of the right-hand tower，and seemed to perch，like a luminous bird，on the black edge of the sculptured balustrade.
The cloister gate was shut，but the Archdeacon always carried the key of the tower in which his laboratory was，and he now made use of it to enter the church.
He found it dark and silent as a cavern.By the thick shadows that fell from all sides in broad patches，he knew that the hangings of the morning's ceremony had not yet been removed.The great silver cross glittered far off through the gloom，sprinkled here and there with shining points，like the Milky Way of that sepulchral night.The windows of the choir showed，above the black drapery，the upper extremity of their pointed arches，the stained glass of which，shot through by a ray of moonlight，had only the uncertain colours of the night—an indefinable violet，white，and blue，of a tint to be found only in the faces of the dead.To the Archdeacon this half circle of pallid Gothic window-tops surrounding the choir seemed like the mitres of bishops gone to perdition.He closed his eyes，and when he opened them again he thought they were a circle of ghastly faces looking down upon him.
He fled on through the church.Then it seemed to him that the church took to itself life and motion—swayed and heaved；that each massive column had turned to an enormous limb beating the ground with its broad stone paw；and that the gigantic Cathedral was nothing but a prodigious elephant，snorting and stamping，with its pillars for legs，its two towers for tusks，and the immense black drapery for caparison.
Thus his d rium or his madness had reached such a pitch of intensity，that the whole external world had become to the unhappy wretch one great Apocalypse—visible，palpable，appalling.
He found one minute's respite.Plunging into the side aisle，he caught sight，behind a group of pillars，of a dim red light.He ran to it as to a star of safety.It was the modest lamp which illumined day and night the public breviary of Notre-Dame under its iron trellis.He cast his eye eagerly over the sacred book，in the hope of finding there some word of consolation or encouragement.The volume lay open at this passage of Job，over which he ran his blood-shot eye：'Then a spirit passed before my face，and I felt a little breath，and the hair of my flesh stood up.'
On reading these dismal words，he felt like a blind man who finds himself wounded by the stick he had picked up for his guidance.His knees bent under him，and he sank upon the pavement thinking of her who had died that day.So many hideous fumes passed through and out of his brain that he felt as if his head had become one of the chimneys of hell.
He must have remained long in that position—past thought，crushed and passive in the clutch of the Fiend.At last some remnant of strength returned to him，and he be-thought him of taking refuge in the tower，beside his faithful Quasimodo.He rose to his feet，and fear being still upon him，he took the lamp of the breviary to light him.It was sacrilege—but he was beyond regarding such trifles.
Slowly he mounted the stairway of the tower，filled with a secret dread which was likely to be shared by the few persons traversing the Parvis at that hour and saw the mysterious light ascending so late from loophole to loophole up to the top of the steeple.
Suddenly he felt a breath of cold air on his face，and found himself under the doorway of the upper gallery.The air was sharp，the sky streaked with clouds in broad white streamers，which drifted into and crushed one another like river ice breaking up after a thaw.The crescent moon floating in their midst looked like some celestial bark set fast among these icebergs of the air.
He glanced downward through the row of slender columns which joins the two towers and let his eye rest for a moment on the silent multitude of the roofs of Paris，shrouded in a veil of mist and smoke—jagged，innumerable，crowded，and small，like the waves of a tranquil sea in a summer's night.
The young moon shed but a feeble ray，which imparted an ashy hue to earth and sky.
At this moment the tower clock lifted its harsh and grating voice.It struck twelve.The priest recalled the hour of noon—twelve hours had passed.
'Oh，'he whispered to himself，'she must be cold by now！'A sudden puff of wind extinguished his lamp，and almost at the same instant，at the opposite corner of the tower，he saw a shade—a something white—a shape，a female form appear.He trembled.Beside this woman stood a little goat that mingled its bleating with the last quaverings of the clock.
He had the strength to look.It was she.
She was pale and heavy-eyed.Her hair fell round her shoulders as in the morning，but there was no rope about her neck，her hands were unbound.She was free，she was dead.
She was clad in white raiment，and a white veil was over her head.
She moved towards him slowly looking up to heaven，followed by the unearthly goat.He felt turned to stone—too petrified to fly.At each step that she advanced，he fell back—that was all.In this manner he re-entered the dark vault of the stairs.He froze at the thought that she might do the same；had she done so，he would have died of horror.
She came indeed as far as the door，halted there for some moments，gazing fixedly into the darkness，but apparently without perceiving the priest，and passed on.She appeared to him taller than he remembered her in life—he saw the moon through her white robe—he heard her breathe.