In the little square, by the wooden belfry, the dry, withered plumes of the coco-palms seemed to burn like flames in the sun, crackling in the heat with a sound like the chirping of thirsty pigeons.

At certain hours of the day, when the light is right, it is possible to see, silhoutted against the rosy incandescence of the sky, the shelter which protects the figure of Christ on the top of the hill.

He telescoped events, altered names, dates and places, as perhaps i am doing now without realizing it, for my uncertainty is greater than was the old dotard's.

...

The White Death is an insatiable harlot. She cannot be seen, but she is here, obscene and transparent. She has lain down besides us. She watches us, heavy with heat and silence. Her lustful yellow eye glistens among the bushes. We can feel her leaning over us, exploring us with her feverish fingers. She creeps from one to another with her stink of nitre. She has scarcely finished with one, when she starts with another, or with several at once, while her snake's eyes search out and choose a lover for the next copulation. She hypnotizes him first, then enfolds him in her tentacles until she breaks his back. The spasms last for a moment, then the death-cry fades from the livid, swollen lips."