An old man, with his face turned to the sea, was making a weary attempt at digging upon a small potato patch.

The blaze of the tropical sun had become lost an hour or so before in a strange, grey mist, rising not from the sea, but from the swamps which lay here and there--brilliant, verdant patches of poison and pestilence.

With the mist came a moist, sticky heat, the air was fetid.

Trent wiped the perspiration from his forehead and breathed hard.

This was an evil moment for him.
Monty turned round at the sound of his approaching footsteps.