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He fell almost at our feet, his fingers clutching the fins, his knees drawn to his chin. Somewhere an infant was crying. In the light of the moving torches, beyond them, toward the marsh, I saw, dark, the high, curved prows of narrow marsh barges, of the sort rowed by slaves. Telima threw her hands before her face, her eyes wild, and uttered a terrifying scream of fear. My hand caught her right wrist and locked on it, like the manacle of a slave. I dragged her stumbling, screaming, toward the opposite side of the island, the darkness. But we found rencers running toward us, men, and women, and children, their hands outstretched, stumbling, falling. - (Raiders of Gor)