ey 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!

At times the storm redoubling its violence, the hanged man revolved on
his own pivot, turning every way at once towards the swarm, as if he
wished to run after the birds; his teeth seemed to try and bite them.
The wind was for him, the chain against him. It was as if black deities
were mixing themselves up in the fray. The hurricane was in the battle.
As the dead man turned himself about, the flock of birds wound round him
spirally. It was a whirl in a whirlwind. A great roar was heard from
below. It was the sea.

The child saw this nightmare. Suddenly he trembled in all his limbs; a
shiver thrilled his frame; he staggered, tottered, nearly fell,
recovered himself, pressed both hands to his forehead, as if he felt his
forehead a support; then, haggard, his hair streaming in the wind,
descending the hill with long strides, his eyes closed, himself almost a
phantom, he took flight, leaving behind that torment in the night.

CHAPTER VII.

THE NORTH POINT OF PORTLAND.

He ran until he was breathless, at random, desperate, over the plain
into the snow, into space. His flight warmed him. He needed it. Without
the run and the fright he had died.