They hearkened to the man’s piteous cries with ears deafened to all entreaty.  They simply watched—­watched and reveled in the watching—­for the terrible end which must come.

Already the murderer’s vast proportions were half buried in the slimy ooze, and, at every fresh effort to save himself, he sank deeper.  But the death which the Breeds awaited was slow to come.  Slow—­slow.  And so they would have it.

Like some hungry monster the muskeg mouths its victims with oozing saliva, supping slowly, and seemingly revels in anticipation of the delicate morsel of human flesh.  The watchers heard the gurgling mud, like to a great tongue licking, as it wrapped round the doomed man’s body, sucking him down, down.  The clutch of the keg seemed like something alive; something so all-powerful—­like the twining feelers of the giant cuttle-fish.  Slowly they saw the doomed man’s legs disappear, and already the slimy muck was above his middle.

The minutes dragged along—­the black slime rose—­it was at Lablache’s breast.  His arms were outspread, and, for the moment, they offered resistance to the sucking strength of the mud.  But the resistance was only momentary.  Down, down he was drawn into that insatiable maw.  The dying man’s arms canted upwards as his shoulders were dragged under.

He cried—­he shrieked—­he raved.  Down, down he went—­the mud touched his chin.  His head was thrown back in one last wild scream.  The watchers saw the staring eyes—­the wide-stretched, lashless lids.

His cries died down into gurgles as the mud oozed over into his gaping mouth.  Down he went to his dreadful death, until his nostrils filled and only his awful eyes remained above the muck.  The watchers did not move.  Slowly—­slowly and silently now—­the last of him disappeared.  Once his head was below the surface his limpened arms followed swiftly.

The Breeds reluctantly turned back from the horrid spectacle.  The fearful torture was done.  For a few moments no words were spoken.  Then, at last, it was Baptiste who broke the silence.  He looked round on the passion-distorted faces about him.  Then his beady eyes rested on the horrified faces of Jacky and her lover.  He eyed them, and presently his gaze dropped, and he turned back to his countrymen.  He merely said two words.

“Scatter, boys.”

The tragedy was over and his words brought down the curtain.  In silence the half-breeds turned and slunk away.  They passed back over their tracks.  Each knew that the sooner he reached the camp again, the sooner would safety be assured.  As the last man departed Baptiste stepped up to Jacky and Bill, who had not moved from their positions.

“Guess there’s no cause to complain o’ yer friends,” he said, addressing Jacky, and leering up into her white, set face.

The girl shivered and turned away with a look of utter loathing on her face.  She appealed to her lover.