At length she chants her incantation to the Stygian Gods, in a voice compounded of all discords, and altogether alien to human organs.  It resembles at once the barking of a dog and the howl of a wolf; it consists of the hooting of the screech-owl, the yelling of a ravenous wild beast, and the fearful hiss of a serpent.  It borrows somewhat from the roar of tempestuous waves, the hollow rushing of the winds among the branches of the forest, and the tremendous crash of deafening thunder.

“Ye Furies,” she cries, “and dreadful Styx, ye sufferings of the damned, and Chaos, for ever eager to destroy the fair harmony of worlds, and thou, Pluto, condemned, to an eternity of ungrateful existence, Hell, and Elysium, of which no Thessalian witch shall partake, Proserpine, for ever cut off from thy health-giving mother, and horrid Hecate, Cerberus curst with incessant hunger, ye Destinies, and Charon endlessly murmuring at the task I impose of bringing back the dead again to the land of the living, hear me!—­if I call on you with a voice sufficiently impious and abominable, if I have never sung this chaunt, unsated with human gore, if I have frequently laid on your altars the fruit of the pregnant mother, bathing its contents with the reeking brain, if I have placed on a dish before you the head and entrails of an infant on the point to be born——­

“I ask not of you a ghost, already a tenant of the Tartarean abodes, and long familiarised to the shades below, but one who has recently quitted the light of day, and who yet hovers over the mouth of hell; let him hear these incantations, and immediately after descend to his destined place!  Let him articulate suitable omens to the son of his general, having so late been himself a soldier of the great Pompey!  Do this, as you love the very sound and rumour of a civil war!”

Saying this, behold, the ghost of the dead man stood erect before her, trembling at the view of his own unanimated limbs, and loth to enter again the confines of his wonted prison.  He shrinks to invest himself with the gored bosom, and the fibres from which death had separated him.  Unhappy wretch, to whom death had not given the privilege to die!  Erichtho, impatient at the unlooked-for delay, lashes the unmoving corpse with one of her serpents.  She calls anew on the powers of hell, and threatens to pronounce the dreadful name, which cannot be articulated without consequences never to be thought of, nor without the direst necessity to be ventured upon.

At length the congealed blood becomes liquid and warm; it oozes from the wounds, and creeps steadily along the veins and the members; the fibres are called into action beneath the gelid breast, and the nerves once more become instinct with life.  Life and death are there at once.  The arteries beat; the muscles are braced; the body raises itself, not by degrees, but at a single impulse, and stands erect.  The eyelids unclose.  The countenance is not that of a living subject, but of the dead.  The paleness of the complexion, the rigidity of the lines, remain; and he looks about with an unmeaning stare, but utters no sound.  He waits on the potent enchantress.