Apollyon

He anxiously descended the ladder, and started homewards at a run, trying not to think of giants, Herne the Hunter, Apollyon lying in wait for Christian, or of the captain with the bleeding hole in his forehead and the corpses round him that remutinied every night on board the bewitched ship.

A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, / Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned / That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.