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An incident occurred, a stormy incident, peculiar to graveyards and
solitudes. It was the arrival of a flight of ravens. Black flying specks
pricked the clouds, pierced through the mist, increased in size, came
near, amalgamated, thickened, hastening towards the hill, uttering
cries. It was like the approach of a Legion. The winged vermin of the
darkness alighted on the gibbet; the child, scared, drew back.
Swarms obey words of command: the birds crowded on the gibbet; not one
was on the corpse. They were talking among themselves. The croaking was
frightful. The howl, the whistle and the roar, are signs of life; the
croak is a satisfied acceptance of putrefaction. In it you can fancy you
hear the tomb breaking silence. The croak is night-like in itself.
The child was frozen even more by terror than by cold.
Then the ravens held silence. One of them perched on the skeleton. This
was a signal: they all precipitated themselves upon it. There was a
cloud of wings, then all their feathers closed up, and the hanged man
disappeared under a swarm of black blisters struggling in the obscurity.
Just then the corpse moved. Was it the corpse? Was it the wind? It made
a frightful bound. The hurricane, which was increasing, came to its
aid. The phantom fell into convulsions.
The squall, already blowing with full lungs, laid hold of it, and moved
it about in all directions.
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