It became horrible; it began to struggle. An awful puppet, with a gibbet

chain for a string. Some humorist of night must have seized the string

and been playing with the mummy. It turned and leapt as if it would fain

dislocate itself; the birds, frightened, flew off. It was like an

explosion of all those unclean creatures. Then they returned, and a

struggle began.

The dead man seemed possessed with hideous vitality. The winds raised

him as though they meant to carry him away. He seemed struggling and

making efforts to escape, but his iron collar held him back. The birds

adapted themselves to all his movements, retreating, then striking

again, scared but desperate. On one side a strange flight was attempted,

on the other the pursuit of a chained man. The corpse, impelled by every

spasm of the wind, had shocks, starts, fits of rage: it went, it came,

it rose, it fell, driving back the scattered swarm. The dead man was a

club, the swarms were dust. The fierce, assailing flock would not leave

their hold, and grew stubborn; the man, as if maddened by the cluster of

beaks, redoubled his blind chastisement of space. It was like the blows

of a stone held in a sling. At times the corpse was covered by talons

and wings; then it was free. There were disappearances of the horde,

then sudden furious returns--a frightful torment continuing after life

was past. The birds seemed frenzied. The air-holes of hell must surely

give passage to such swarms. Thrusting of claws, thrusting of beaks,

croakings, rendings of shreds no longer flesh, creakings of the gibbet,

shudderings of the skeleton, jingling of the chain, the voices of the

storm and tumult--what conflict more fearful? A hobgoblin warring with

devils! A combat with a spectre!

The Man Who Laughs