The
black bank of dingy leathern leaves above his head, the endless
labyrinth of stems and withes (for every bough had lowered its own
living cord, to take fresh hold of the foul soil below); the web of
roots, which stretched away inland till it was lost in the shades of
evening--all seemed one horrid complicated trap for him and his; and
even where, here and there, he passed the mouth of a lagoon, there was
no opening, no relief--nothing but the dark ring of mangroves. Wailing
sadly, sad-colored mangrove-hens ran off across the mud into the dreary
dark. The hoarse night-raven, hid among the roots, startled the
voyagers with a sudden shout, and then all was again silent as a grave.
The loathy alligators lounging in the slime lifted their horny eyelids
lazily, and leered upon him as he passed with stupid savageness. Lines
of tall herons stood dimly in the growing gloom, like white fantastic
ghosts, watching the passage of the doomed boat. All was foul, sullen,
weird as witches' dream. If Amyas had seen a crew of skeletons glide
down the stream behind him, with Satan standing at the helm, he would
scarcely have been surprised. What fitter craft could haunt that
Stygian flood?
THE CLUB-HAULING OF THE DIOMEDE
From "Peter Simple," BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT
We continued our cruise along the coast, until we had run down into the
Bay of Arcason, where we captured two or three vessels, and obliged
many more to run on shore.
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