A murmur of mingled agony and resentment succeeded the besiegers'first shouts of triumph.Quasimodo，leaning on his elbows on the balustrade，regarded them impassively.He might have been one of the old long-haired kings at his window.
Jehan Frollo found himself in a critical position.He was alone on the gallery with the redoubtable bell-ringer，separated from his companions by eighty feet of sheer wall.While Quasimodo was engaged with the ladder，the scholar had run to the postern which he expected to find on the latch.Foiled！The bell-ringer，as he entered the gallery，had locked it behind him.Thereupon Jehan had hidden himself behind one of the stone kings，not daring to breathe，but fixing upon the terrible hunchback a wide-eyed and bewildered gaze，like the man who courted the wife of a menagerie keeper，and going one evening to a rendezvous，scaled the wrong wall and found himself suddenly face to face with the polar bear.
For the first few moments the hunchback did not notice him；but presently he turned his head and straightened himself with a jerk—he had caught sight of the scholar.
Jehan prepared himself for a savage encounter，but his deaf antagonist did not move；only he kept his face turned towards him and regarded him steadily.
'Ho！ho！'said Jehan，'why dost thou glare at me so with that single surly eye？'And so saying，the young scamp began stealthily raising his cross-bow.'Quasimodo！'he cried，'I'm going to change thy nickname.Henceforth they shall call thee the blind bell-ringer.'
He let fly the winged shaft；it whistled and drove into the hunchback's left arm.Quasimodo was no more disturbed by it than the effigy of King Pharamond by the scratch of a penknife.He took hold of the arrow，drew it out of his arm，and calmly broke it across his powerful knee.Then he dropped rather than threw the two pieces to the ground.But he did not give Jehan time to discharge another shaft.The arrow broken，Quasimodo with a snort leapt like a locust upon the boy，whose armour was flattened by the shock against the wall.
And now，in the half darkness，by the flickering light of the torches，a horrible scene was enacted.
In his left hand Quasimodo grasped both Jehan's arms，who made no struggle，so utterly did he give himself up for lost；then，with his right，the hunchback proceeded to take off one by one，and with sinister deliberation，the several pieces of the scholar's iron shell—sword，dagger，helmet，breastplate，armpieces—like a monkey peeling a walnut，and dropped them at his feet.
When Jehan found himself thus disarmed，divested of all shield and covering，naked and helpless in those formidable arms，he did not attempt to parley with his deaf enemy.Instead，he fell to laughing impudently in his face，and with all the careless assurance of a boy of sixteen，burst into a song at that time popular in the streets：
'The town of Cambrai is finely clad，
But Marafin has stripped her.'
He had not time to finish.Quasimodo was seen to mount the parapet of the gallery，holding the scholar by the feet in one hand only and swinging him over the abyss like a sling.Then came a sound like a box of bones dashing against a wall，and something came hurtling down that stopped halfway in its descent，caught by one of the projections of the building.It was a dead body bent double，the loins broken，the skull empty.
A cry of horror went up from the truands.
'Revenge！'yelled Clopin.'Sack！sack！'replied the multitude.'To the assault！'
An appalling uproar followed，in which every language，every patois，every conceivable accent was mingled.The death of the poor little scholar inspired the crowd with furious energy.They were torn with anger and shame at having been so long held in check by a miserable hunchback.Their rage found them ladders，multiplied their torches，and in a few minutes Quasimodo，to his consternation and despair，beheld the hideous swarm mounting from all sides to the assault of Notre-Dame.They who had no ladders had knotted ropes；they who had no ropes clambered up by the carvings，helping themselves up by one another's rags.There was no means of forcing back this rising tide of frightful forms.Fury reddened the ferocious faces，sweat poured from the grimy foreheads，eyes glared viciously.It was as if some other church had sent out her gorgons，her dragons，her goblins，her demons，all her most fantastic sculptures to the assault of Notre-Dame—a coating of living monsters covering the stone monsters of the f de.
Meanwhile a thousand torches had kindled in the Place.The wild scene，wrapped until now in dense obscurity，suddenly leapt out in a blaze of light.The Parvis was brilliantly illumined and cast a radiance on the sky，while the blazing pile on the high platform of the church still burned and lit up the city far around.The vast outline of the two towers，thrown far across the roofs of Paris，broke this brightness with a wide mass of shadow.The city appeared to be rousing itself from its slumbers.Distant tocsins uttered their warning plaints.The truands howled，panted，blasphemed，and climbed steadily higher，while Quasimodo，impotent against so many enemies，trembling for the gipsy girl as he saw those savage faces approaching nearer and nearer to his gallery，implored a miracle from heaven，and wrung his hands in despair.
Chapter 5-The Closet where Monsieur Louis of France Recites his Orisons
The reader perhaps remembers that Quasimodo，a moment before catching sight of the nocturnal band of truands and scrutinizing Paris from the height of his steeple，saw but a single remaining light twinkling at a window in the topmost storey of a grim and lofty building beside the Porte Saint-Antoine.The building was the Bastille，the twinkling light was the taper of Louis XI.
