thou art beaten; own it, and
thank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself."

It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy--for
his beard was like a mad dog's jowl--even if he would have owned that
for the first time in his life he had found his master, it was all too
late.

The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew him
on, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury we had heeded neither
wet nor dry; nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcely
leap, with the last spring of o'erlabored legs, from the ingulfing
grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast, like a hummock
of bog-oak, standing out the quagmire; and then he tossed his arms to
heaven, and they were black to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was
ghastly. I could only gaze and pant, for my strength was no more than an
infant's, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away,
while, joint by joint, he sunk from sight.

When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed
to find, the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble upon
a new-formed patch of blackness. But to the center of its pulpy gorge
the greedy slough was heaving, and sullenly grinding its weltering jaws
among the flags and sedges.

With pain and ache, both of mind and body, and shame at my own fury, I
heavily mounted my horse again, and looked down at the innocent Ensie.
Would this playful loving child grow up like his cruel father, and end
a godless life of hatred with a death of violence? He lifted his noble
forehead toward me, as if to answer, "Nay, I will not"; but the words
he spoke were these:

"Don"--for he never could say "John"--"oh Don, I am so glad that nasty,
naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home."

It hurt me more than I can tell, even through all other grief, to take
into my arms the child of the man just slain by me. But I could not
leave him there till some one else might fetch him, on account of the
cruel slough, and the ravens which had come hovering over the dead
horse; neither could I, with my wound, tie him on my horse and walk.

For now I had spent a great deal of blood, and was rather faint and
weary. And it was luck for me that Kickums had lost spirit like his
master, and went home as mildly as a lamb. For, when we came toward
the farm, I seemed to be riding in a dream almost; and the voices of
both men and women (who had hurrie