“I can’t stand this?” cried Mr. Brown, in a trembling whisper, and away he went, with the speed of a greyhound, towards the bridge that connected the island with the main land.

I did not think that words were desirable or becoming on my part, as I did not have charge of the expedition, so no sooner had Mr. Brown turned to run than I followed him.

Fear lent me wings, and I bounded over the rocks like a deer pursued by hunters, but in despite of my utmost endeavors I found that I was unable to compete with my friend, who ran as though trained for ten mile stretches upon a race course.

Once I looked back to see if we were followed, but the white visitant appeared content with driving us off, for no pursuit was made.

I had half an idea of stopping, but another groan, more unnatural and ghostly than any that I had heard, determined me, and I recommenced my flight with but faint hope of overtaking Mr. Brown, who, I perceived, was already on the peninsula, bounding along with a recklessness that would have made him shudder at any other time.  I attempted to utter a warning cry, but the effort was a failure, and just as I reached the bridge I saw that my worst fears were realized, for my friend caught his feet in the long, dried grass, lost his balance, and fell heavily.

I quickly gained the spot, and saw, to my horror, that my companion had fallen upon the soft, black mud which extended for many acres on each side of the island, and that he was slowly sinking, in spite of his frantic efforts to reach the bridge, which was about six feet from his outstretched arms.

“Save me!” he cried, in despairing accents, and just then the moon, as though in mockery of his request, shone out brighter than ever.

He made an almost superhuman effort to sustain himself, and keep from sinking, but I saw, with horror, that he was settling slowly and surely, and that all his struggles only hastened his end.

“Can you do nothing for me?” he shrieked.  “For God’s sake, don’t let me die such a horrid death as this.  Try and save me.”

I thought of a dozen different ways to assist him, but none of them were practicable, and I was obliged to conjure up others.

“Can you reach my hand?” I asked, stretching it towards him, first taking the precaution of twisting my left hand in a clump of dried grass, so that I, too, should not be dragged into the bog.

The poor fellow made a frantic effort to do so, but he could not reach within six inches.

“Lean a little more towards me,” he shrieked, but I did not dare to, for I should have shared his fate, and both of us would have smothered, and our friends would never have learned our fate.

My companion uttered a groan, and for a moment was silent.  During the brief period, I heard, with awful distinctness, the sound of the pickaxe, as it was struck against the rocks upon the island, worked, I had no doubt, by supernatural hands.