The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies.

"Oh yes. . . I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

giant rocks. . . crouch like a sea monster

"The old charts call it 'Ship-Trap Island,'" Whitney replied. "A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition --"

The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea closed over his head.

The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse.

. . . the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. . .

. . . night crawled by like a wounded snake. . .

The muck sucked viciously at his foot. . .

Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light.

The sea rumbled and hissed