And still the Sirens sang. Ulysses made signs, motions, gestures,
promising mountains of gold if they would set him free; but their oars
only moved faster. And still the Sirens sang. And still the more he
adjured them to set him free, the faster with cords and ropes they bound
him; till they were quite out of hearing of the Sirens' notes, whose
effect great Circe had so truly predicted. And well she might speak of
them, for often she has joined her own enchanting voice to theirs, while
she has sat in the flowery meads, mingled with the Sirens and the Water
Nymphs, gathering their potent herbs and drugs of magic quality: their
singing altogether has made the gods stoop, and "heaven drowsy with the
harmony."
[Illustration: _He would have broken his bonds to rush after them_.]
Escaped that peril, they had not sailed yet a hundred leagues farther,
when they heard a roar afar off, which Ulysses knew to be the barking of
Scylla's dogs, which surround her waist, and bark incessantly. Coming
nearer they beheld a smoke ascend, with a horrid murmur, which arose from
that other whirlpool, to which they made nigher approaches than to Scylla.
Through the furious eddy, which is in that place, the ship stood still as
a stone, for there was no man to lend his hand to an oar, the dismal roar
of Scylla's dogs at a distance, and the nearer clamours of Charybdis,
where everything made an echo, quite taking from them the power of
exertion. Ulysses went up and down encouraging his men, one by one, giving
them good words, telling them that they were in greater perils when they
were blocked up in the Cyclop's cave, yet, Heaven assisting his counsels,
he had delivered them out of that extremity.
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