The murmur of
voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles widening
in their ascent rise tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky.
And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the
chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with
measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre. Can
they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can that
vast concourse of silent forms be living beings?
The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands
torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were bloodless,
and in place of hair writhing and swelling serpents curled around
their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their
hymns, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their
faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound of the
instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart, curdling
the blood.
"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime! Him
we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us.
But woe! woe! to him who has done the deed of secret murder. We
the fearful family of Night fasten ourselves upon his whole being.
Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still faster in pursuit,
twine our snakes around his feet, and bring him to the ground.
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