Malebouche rushed to the aid of his horse, but before he could reach the poor beast it broke through all restraint in its agony of fear that the wolf might prefer horse-flesh to venison, and tearing away the branch and all, galloped for dear life away, away, towards distant Wallingford, the wolf after it; for when man or horse runs, the savage beast, whether dog or wolf, seems bound to follow.
So Malebouche was left alone with his deer in the worst possible humour.
It was useless now to think of carrying the whole carcass home; so he cut off the haunch only, and throwing it over his shoulder, started.
A storm came drifting up and obscured the rising moon—the woods grew very dark.
Onward he tramped—wearily, wearily, tramp! tramp! splash! splash!
He had got into a bog.
How to get out of it was the question. He had heard there was a quagmire somewhere about this part of the forest, of bottomless depth, men said.
So he strove to get back to firm ground, but in the darkness went wrong; and the farther he went the deeper he sank.
Up to the knees.