During this time，as the stones no longer fell，the truands had ceased looking upward.The bandits，panting like a pack of hounds baying the wild boar in his lair，pressed tumultuously round the great door，disfigured now and injured by the great battering-ram，but still erect.They waited，eager and trembling，for the grand stroke—the blow that should bring it crashing down.Each strove to get nearest to be the first，when it should open，to rush into that opulent Cathedral，that vast repository in which the riches of three centuries were heaped up.They reminded one another with roars of exultation and rapacity of the splendid silver crosses，the fine brocade copes，the silver-gilt tombs，of all the magnificence of the choir，the dazzling display on high festivals，the Christmas illuminations，the Easter monstrances glittering like the sun，and all the splendid solemnities in which shrines，candlesticks，pixes，tabernacles，and reliquaries crusted the altars with gold and diamonds.It is very certain that at this exciting moment every one of the truands was thinking much less about the deliverance of the gipsy girl than the plundering of Notre-Dame.Indeed，we can very well believe that to the majority of them Esmeralda was merely a pretext—if plunderers have any call for pretexts.
Suddenly，at the moment when they were crowding round the battering-ram for a final effort，each one holding his breath and gathering up his muscles to give full force to the decisive blow，a howl more agonizing than that which succeeded the fall of the great beam arose from the midst of them.Those who were not screaming，those who were still alive，looked and saw two streams of molten lead pouring from the top of the edifice into the thickest of the crowd.The waves of that human sea had sunk under the boiling metal which，at the two points where it fell，had made two black and reeking hollows，like hot water poured on snow.There lay dying，wretches burned almost to a cinder and moaning in agony；and besides the two principal streams，drops of this hideous rain fell from scattered points on to the assailants，penetrating their skulls like fiery gimlets，pattering on them like red-hot hailstones.
The screams were heart-rending.Throwing down the battering-ram on the dead bodies，they fled in complete panic—the boldest with the most timid—and for a second time the Parvis was emptied.
Every eye was now directed upward to the top of the church.They beheld an extraordinary sight.On the topmost gallery，higher up than the great rose-window，a huge flame ascended between the two steeples，throwing out whirlwinds of sparks and shooting tongues of fire into the smoke as it was caught by the wind.Below this flame，under the balustrade whose carved trefoils showed black against the glare，two gargoyles vomited incessantly that burning shower，the silvery stream of which shone out upon the darkness of the lower part of the f de.As they neared the ground the two streams of liquid lead spread out into a spray，like water from the rose of a monster watering-can.Above the flame，the huge towers，of each of which two sides sharply outlined—one black，the other glowing red—were visible，seemed more enormous still by the immensity of the shadow they cast upon the sky.Their myriad sculptured devils and dragons assumed a sinister aspect.In the flickering radiance of the fire they appeared to move—vampires grinned，gargoyles barked，salamanders blew the fire，griffins sneezed in the smoke.And among these monsters，thus awakened from their stony slumber by all this flame and uproar，there was one that walked about and passed from time to time before the blazing front of the pile，like a bat before a torch.
Assuredly this strange beacon-light must have awakened the lonely wood-cutter on the far Bicêtre hills，startled to see the gigantic shadows of the towers of Notre-Dame wavering on his coppices.
The silence of terror now fell upon the truands；and through it they heard the cries of alarm of the clergy shut up in their cloister like frightened horses in a burning stable，the stealthy sound of windows opened quickly and still more quickly shut again，the stir inside the surrounding houses and the Htel-Dieu，the roar and crackle of the fire，the groans of the dying，and the continuous patter of the shower of boiling lead upon the pavement.
Meanwhile the chief Vagabonds had retired under the porch of the Gondelaurier mansion and were holding a council of war.The Duke of Egypt，seated on a post，was contemplating with religious awe the phantasmagoric pile blazing two hundred feet aloft in the air.Clopin Trouillefou gnawed his great fists with rage.
'Impossible to make an entrance，'he muttered between his teeth.
'An enchanted church！'growled the old Bohemian，Mathias Hungadi Spicali.
'By the Pope's whiskers！'said a grizzled truand who had seen active service，'but these two rain-pipes spit molten lead at you better than the loopholes of Lectoure.'
'Do you see that demon going to and from in front of the fire？'cried the Duke of Egypt.
'By God！'exclaimed Clopin，''tis that damned ringer；'tis Quasimodo！'
The Bohemian shook his head.'I tell you'tis the spirit Sabnac，the great marquis，the demon of fortifications.He has the form of an armed soldier and a lion's head.Sometimes he is mounted on a grewsome horse.He turns men into stones and builds towers of them.He has command over near on fifty legions.'Tis he，sure enough.I should know him anywhere.Sometimes he has on a fine robe wrought with gold，after the fashion of the Turks.'
'Where is Bellevigne de l'étoile？'asked Clopin.
'Dead，'answered a truand woman.
'Notre-Dame is keeping the Htel-Dieu busy，'said Andry le Rouge with a vacant laugh.
'Is there no way to force that door？'cried the King of Tunis，stamping his foot.
The Duke of Egypt pointed with a mournful gesture to the two rivulets of boiling lead which continued to streak the dark front of the building.
