Lablache sat up and looked about.  He felt dazed.  He knew he must go on.  Death—­death which ever way he turned.  God! did ever a man suffer so?  The name of John Allandale came to his mind and he gazed wildly about, fancying some one had whispered it to him in answer to his thoughts.  He stood up.  He took another step forward with reckless haste.  He remembered the pistol behind him.  The ground seemed to shake under him.  His distorted fancy was playing tricks with him.  Another step.  Yes, the ground was solid—­no, it shook.  The weight of his body came down on the spot.  His foot went through.  He hurled himself backwards again and clutched wildly at the ground.  He shuddered and cried out.  Again came Baptiste’s voice.

“Git on, or—­”

The distraught man struggled to his feet.  He was becoming delirious with terror.  He stepped forward again.  The ground seemed solid and he laughed a horrid, wild laugh.  Another step and another.  He paused, breathing hard.  Then he started to mutter,—­

“On—­on.  Yes, on again or they’ll have me.  The path—­this is the right one.  I’ll cheat ’em yet.”

He strode out boldly.  His foot sank in something soft He did not seem to notice it.  Another step and his foot sank again in the reeking muck.  Suddenly he seemed to realize.  He threw himself back and obtained a foothold.  He stood trembling.  He turned and tried another direction.  Again he sank.  Again he drew back.  His knees tottered and he feared to move.  Suddenly a ring of metal pressed against his head from behind.  In a state of panic he stepped forward on the shaking ground.  It held.  He paused, then stepped again, his foot coming down on a reedy tuft.  It shook, but still held.  He took another step.  His foot sunk quickly, till the soft muck oozed round his ankle.  He cried out in terror and turned to come back.

Baptiste stood with leveled pistol.

“On—­on, you gopher.  Turn again an’ I wing yer.  On, you bastard.  You’ve chosen yer path, keep to it.”

“Mercy—­I’m sinking.”

“Git on—­not one step back.”

Lablache struggled to release his sinking limb.  By a great effort he drew it out only to plunge it into another yielding spot.  Again he struggled, and in his struggle his other foot slipped from its reedy hold.  It, too, sank.  With a terrible cry he plunged forward.  He lurched heavily as he sought to drag his feet from the viscid muck.  At every effort he sank deeper.  At last he hurled himself full length upon the surface of the reeking mire.  He cried aloud, but no one answered him.  Under his body he felt the yielding crust cave.  He clutched at the surface grass, but he only plucked the tufts from their roots.  They gave him no hold.

The silent figures on the path watched his death-struggle.  It was ghastly—­horrible.  The expression of their faces was fiendish.  They watched with positive joy.  There was no pity in the hearts of the Breeds.