Nevertheless, he slipped constantly. Burdened with Petit-Pierre's weight, he had great difficulty in recovering himself; and before long this toilsome struggle so completely exhausted him he was forced to ask Petit-Pierre to get down and let him rest awhile.
"You are worn out, my poor Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre. "Is it very much farther, this marsh of yours?"
"Two or three hundred yards more, and then we re-enter the forest as far as the line-path to Benaste, which will take us direct to the farm."
"Can you go as far as that?"
"I hope so."
"Good God! how I wish I could carry you myself, or at any rate, walk beside you."
These words restored the count's courage. Giving up his second method of advancing from tuft to tuft, he plunged resolutely into the mire. But the more he advanced, the more the slough appeared to move and deepen. Suddenly Bonneville, who had made a mistake and placed his foot on a spot he had not had time to sound, felt himself sinking rapidly and likely to disappear.
"If I sink altogether," he said, "fling yourself either to right or left. These dangerous places are never very wide."
Petit-Pierre sprang off at once, not to save himself, but to lighten Bonneville of the additional weight.
"Oh, my friend!" he cried, with an aching heart and eyes wet with tears as he listened to that generous cry of devotion and self-forgetfulness, "think only of yourself, I command you."