Durtal could see no one.

He turned and, clinging to the hand rail, groped along the wall toward the daylight which stole down between the inclined leaves of the sounding-shutters.
Leaning out over the precipice, he discerned beneath him a formidable array of bells hanging from oak supports lined with iron.

The sombre bell metal was slick as if oiled and absorbed light without refracting it.

Bending backward, he looked into the upper abyss and perceived new batteries of bells overhead.

These bore the raised effigy of a bishop, and a place in each, worn by the striking of the clapper, shone golden.
All were in quiescence, but the wind rattled against the sounding-shutters, stormed through the cage of timbers, howled along the spiral stair, and was caught and held whining in the bell vases.
Suddenly a light breeze, like the stirring of confined air, fanned his cheek.