The rim of the hole in the ceiling was speedily surrounded by heads of the slain, whence dripped long, red and smoking streams, the uproar was indescribable; a close and burning smoke almost produced night over this combat. Words are lacking to express horror when it has reached this pitch. There were no longer men in this conflict, which was now infernal. They were no longer giants matched with colossi.
It resembled Milton and Dante rather than Homer.
Demons attacked, spectres resisted.
It was heroism become monstrous.
BOOK FIRST.--THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS
CHAPTER XXIII
ORESTES FASTING AND PYLADES DRUNK
At length, by dint of mounting on each other''s backs, aiding themselves with the skeleton of the staircase, climbing up the walls, clinging to the ceiling, slashing away at the very brink of the trap-door, the last one who offered resistance, a score of assailants, soldiers, National Guardsmen, municipal guardsmen, in utter confusion, the majority disfigured by wounds in the face during that redoubtable ascent, blinded by blood, furious, rendered savage, made an irruption into the apartment on the first floor.
There they found only one man still on his feet, Enjolras.