shrouded in a veil of mist and smoke
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.
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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.
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