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They raised themselves up on tiptoe. On the left hand there was an old black velvet hat trimmed with ragged feathers bobbing about regular hearse's plumes. It was dancing a devil of a dance, this hat bouncing and whirling round, diving down and then springing up again.
These great spreading, gnarled branches are hands, claws monstrous and menacing; those leaves no longer bright remind me of a hearse's plumes; their rustling of the rustling and switching of a pall or winding-sheet. The trunk, black, sinuous, towering, is assuredly no piece of timber, but something pulpy, something intangible, something antagonistic, mystic, devilish. I turn from it and shudder.
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