Claude was walking with a slow， grave step. He did not look before him as he walked， he was directing his course towards the northern tower， but his face was turned aside towards the right bank of the Seine， and he held his head high， as though trying to see something over the roofs. The owl often assumes this oblique attitude. It flies towards one point and looks towards another. In this manner the priest passed above Quasimodo without seeing him.
The deaf man， who had been petrified by this sudden apparition， beheld him disappear through the door of the staircase to the north tower. The reader is aware that this is the tower from which the H？tel-de-Ville is visible.
Quasimodo rose and followed the archdeacon.
Quasimodo ascended the tower staircase for the sake of ascending it， for the sake of seeing why the priest was ascending it. Moreover， the poor bellringer did not know what he (Quasimodo) should do， what he should say， what he wished.
He was full of fury and full of fear. The archdeacon and the gypsy had come into conflict in his heart.
When he reached the summit of the tower， before emerging from the shadow of the staircase and stepping upon the platform， he cautiously examined the position of the priest.
The priest's back was turned to him. There is an openwork balustrade which surrounds the platform of the bell tower.
The priest， whose eyes looked down upon the town， was resting his breast on that one of the four sides of the balustrades which looks upon the Pont Notre-Dame.
Quasimodo， advancing with the tread of a wolf behind him， went to see what he was gazing at thus.
The priest's attention was so absorbed elsewhere that he did not hear the deaf man walking behind him.
Paris is a magnificent and charming spectacle， and especially at that day， viewed from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame， in the fresh light of a summer dawn. The day might have been in July. The sky was perfectly serene. Some tardy stars were fading away at various points， and there was a very brilliant one in the east， in the brightest part of the heavens. The sun was about to appear； Paris was beginning to move. A very white and very pure light brought out vividly to the eye all the outlines that its thousands of houses present to the east. The giant shadow of the towers leaped from roof to roof， from one end of the great city to the other.
There were several quarters from which were already heard voices and noisy sounds. Here the stroke of a bell， there the stroke of a hammer， beyond， the complicated clatter of a cart in motion.
Already several columns of smoke were being belched forth from the chimneys scattered over the whole surface of roofs， as through the fissures of an immense sulphurous crater.
The river， which ruffles its waters against the arches of so many bridges， against the points of so many islands， was wavering with silvery folds. Around the city， outside the ramparts， sight was lost in a great circle of fleecy vapors through which one confusedly distinguished the indefinite line of the plains， and the graceful swell of the heights. All sorts of floating sounds were dispersed over this half-awakened city. Towards the east， the morning breeze chased a few soft white bits of wool torn from the misty fleece of the hills.
In the Parvis， some good women， who had their milk jugs in their hands， were pointing out to each other， with astonishment， the singular dilapidation of the great door of Notre-Dame， and the two solidified streams of lead in the crevices of the stone. This was all that remained of the tempest of the night. The bonfire lighted between the towers by Quasimodo had died out. Tristan had already cleared up the Place， and had the dead thrown into the Seine. Kings like Louis XI. are careful to clean the pavement quickly after a massacre.
Outside the balustrade of the tower， directly under the point where the priest had paused， there was one of those fantastically carved stone gutters with which Gothic edifices bristle， and， in a crevice of that gutter， two pretty wallflowers in blossom， shaken out and vivified， as it were， by the breath of air， made frolicsome salutations to each other. Above the towers， on high， far away in the depths of the sky， the cries of little birds were heard.
But the priest was not listening to， was not looking at， anything of all this. He was one of the men for whom there are no mornings， no birds， no flowers. In that immense horizon， which assumed so many aspects about him， his contemplation was concentrated on a single point.
Quasimodo was burning to ask him what he had done with the gypsy； but the archdeacon seemed to be out of the world at that moment. He was evidently in one of those violent moments of life when one would not feel the earth crumble.
He remained motionless and silent， with his eyes steadily fixed on a certain point； and there was something so terrible about this silence and immobility that the savage bellringer shuddered before it and dared not come in contact with it.
Only， and this was also one way of interrogating the archdeacon， he followed the direction of his vision， and in this way the glance of the unhappy deaf man fell upon the Place de Grève.
Thus he saw what the priest was looking at. The ladder was erected near the permanent gallows. There were some people and many soldiers in the Place. A man was dragging a white thing， from which hung something black， along the pavement. This man halted at the foot of the gallows.
Here something took place which Quasimodo could not see very clearly. It was not because his only eye had not preserved its long range， but there was a group of soldiers which prevented his seeing everything. Moreover， at that moment the sun appeared， and such a flood of light overflowed the horizon that one would have said that all the points in Paris， spires， chimneys， gables， had simultaneously taken fire.