That it was writhing in its death agonies was
evidenced by the fact that it made no effort to pursue him, and so,
to the accompaniment of the shrill screaming of the dying monster,
the man won at last to the farther edge of the open water to take
up once more the almost superhuman effort of crossing the last
stretch of clinging mud which separated him from the solid ground
of Pal-ul-don.
A good two hours it took him to drag his now weary body through
the clinging, stinking muck, but at last, mud covered and spent,
he dragged himself out upon the soft grasses of the bank. A hundred
yards away a stream, winding its way down from the distant mountains,
emptied into the morass, and, after a short rest, he made his way
to this and seeking a quiet pool, bathed himself and washed the mud
and slime from his weapons, accouterments, and loin cloth. Another
hour was spent beneath the rays of the hot sun in wiping, polishing,
and oiling his Enfield though the means at hand for drying it
consisted principally of dry grasses. It was afternoon before he
had satisfied himself that his precious weapon was safe from any
harm by dirt, or dampness, and then he arose and took up the search
for the spoor he had followed to the opposite side of the swamp.
Would he find again the trail that had led into the opposite side
of the morass, to be lost there, even to his trained senses? If he
found it not again upon this side of the almost impassable barrier
he might assume that his long journey had ended in failure.
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