The Count of Monte Cristo

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The wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an hour, and
they were rapidly reaching the end of their voyage. As they drew near
the island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air was so clear that
they could already distinguish the rocks heaped on one another, like
cannon balls in an arsenal, with green bushes and trees growing in the
crevices. As for the sailors, although they appeared perfectly tranquil
yet it was evident that they were on the alert, and that they carefully
watched the glassy surface over which they were sailing, and on which a
few fishing-boats, with their white sails, were alone visible. They were
within fifteen miles of Monte Cristo when the sun began to set behind
Corsica, whose mountains appeared against the sky, showing their rugged
peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock, like the giant Adamastor, rose
dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and intercepting the light that gilded
its massive peaks so that the voyagers were in shadow. Little by little
the shadow rose higher and seemed to drive before it the last rays of
the expiring day; at last the reflection rested on the summit of the
mountain, where it paused an instant, like the fiery crest of a volcano,