If ever Bob was near to utter despair, it was at that moment. He was over the ankles in mud, and he could feel himself gradually sinking, while the slimy mass seemed to cling to his limbs and drag him downwards with irresistible force.
Once he thought that he might be safer if he lay upon his face, but he quickly banished that suggestion when he saw that the prostrate position of the deer did not impede its certain destruction. He scarce dared to breathe, since every movement of a muscle hastened the work of the muskeg.
Down, down he sank. The mud crept to his knees and gradually began to ascend his thighs.
It seemed to be only a matter of time—another hour, perhaps less—and the tragedy would end.
Yet he tried to be brave. He tried to brace himself to face the trial like a man, though it is hardly to be wondered at that he felt hope quickly leaving him, as inch by inch he sunk into that horrible green death-trap.
Then, just as suddenly as if a voice had spoken to him from the very grass at his feet, there flashed into his mind the words that the good old Scot had spoken by the camp-fire the previous night—
"There's a Hand that could guide the frailest birch-bark through Niagara."
Bob remembered, and hope sprang up in his heart with a bright-burning flame. Yet his faith was severely tested, as the mud crept up, up—now to his hips, then slowly advancing beyond his waist, until at last it was embracing his chest in a cold grip.