“The right path,” he said at last, in a guttural whisper.

“Then start.”  The words rang out cuttingly upon the night air.

Lablache fixed his eyes upon the distant peak of the mountain which was to be his guide.  He advanced slowly.  The Breeds followed, Jacky and Bill bringing up the rear.  The ground seemed firm and the money-lender moved heavily forward.  His breath came in gasps.  He was panting, not with exertion, but with terror.  He could not test the ground until his weight was upon it.  An outstretched foot pressed on the grassy path told him nothing.  He knew that the crust would hold until the weight of his body was upon it.  With every successful step his terror increased.  What would the next bring forth?

His agony of mind was awful.

He covered about ten yards in this way.  The sweat poured from him.  His clothes stuck to him.  He paused for a second and took fresh bearings.  He turned his head and looked into the muzzle of Baptiste’s revolver.  He shuddered and turned again to the mountains.  He pressed forward.  Still the ground was firm.  But this gave him no hope.  Suddenly a frightful horror swept over him.  It was something fresh; he had not thought of it before.  The fact was strange, but it was so.  The path—­had he taken the wrong one?  He had made his selection at haphazard and he knew that there was no turning back.  Baptiste had said so and he had seen his resolve written in his face.  A conviction stole over him that he was on the wrong path.  He knew he was.  He must be.  Of course it was only natural.  The center path must be the main one.  He stood still.  He could have cried out in his mental agony.  Again he turned—­and saw the pistol.

He put his foot out.  The ground trembled at his touch.  He drew back with a gurgling cry.  He turned and tried another spot.  It was firm until his weight rested upon it.  Then it shook.  He sought to return to the spot he had left.  But now he could not be sure.  His mind was uncertain.  Suddenly he gave a jump.  He felt the ground solid beneath him as he alighted.  His face was streaming.  He passed his hand across it in a dazed way.  His terror increased a hundredfold.  Now he endeavored to take his bearings afresh.  He looked out at the three mountains.  The right one—­yes, that was it.  The right one.  He saw the peak, and made another step forward.  The path held.  Another step and his foot went through.  He drew back with a cry.  He tripped and fell heavily.  The ground shook under him and he lay still, moaning.

Baptiste’s voice roused him and urged him on.

“Git on, you skunk,” he said.  “Go to yer death.”