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!

At times the storm redoubling its violence, the hanged man revolved on