near. The hours went by, and still he slept calmly, dreamlessly. Towards dawn he turned slightly on his left side, and then, as though by magic, the vacant spaces of unconscious sleep became filled with images, at first confused and incoherent, with no more rational dependence upon one another than the inarticulate sounds produced by a deaf mute and organised arbitrary speech. First he was conscious of great peril, which threatened him, he knew not from where. It was an old enemy, someone he had once wronged, someone who had promised him forgiveness, and now withdrew that promise. Was it a man or a nation, or some great law of nature, or some element of the supernatural that he had once outraged and that now threatened him, that now assailed him with fears, choked full of horror? Choked--choked--choked full of horrors. No, not choked full of horrors. Full of choking horrors. Full of deprivation of breath. Full of rigidity of lung. Full of the smell of stifling brass and unutterable pains of sulphureous obstruction. This was better. This was an open prairie, and he, weary-limbed and sodden with fatigue, having accomplished innumerable miles of travel, had innumerable miles of travel still to accomplish through the rank, tall, tangled grass that pressed against his steps, up to his knees, and held back his feet as a shallow rapid might hold back the feet of one standing in it. Overhead the sky was blue and pitiless; without a cloud, without the faintest promise of rain, which would refresh and cheer him. The grass at his feet was too bright for wholesomeness and hurt his eyes, as the sun above his head was too bright for wholesomeness and hurt his head, his neck, his back, seemed to parch and dry up the very essence of his spirits. It would be better if he could lie down; for, although the grass was too green with light, it was softer than this toil forward, and it would soothe the fiery heat of his muscles to stretch in delicious ease, even under that fierce sun. But he was powerless to do his will. He was powerless even to bend his back; he was powerless to bend to one side or the other. In no way could he alter the strain on the muscles of his legs. They burned him as though they were of red-hot steel; and yet onward and onward he must go, supported and projected by them. It was not now leagues that threatened him ahead, but infinity. For eternity he was destined to plod on over this fiercely hot, breathless plain, with the current of those tangled grasses always against his feet, on his head the furious heat of the sun, and in the muscles of his legs the fire of hell. Hell! Ah, yes! Now he knew all. This was his punishment for what he had done. But what had he done? There was the bitterness of this great punishment. He did not know. But it was something so terrible that the angels above durst not breathe it lest they might pollute Heaven, nor the demons in hell utter even its name, lest the Plutonian fires might be raised to rages such as the damned had never known. What was this after all? A change in the aspect of affairs which a while ago had seemed immutable, eternal. No longer was the plain a solitude, yet still no human figure but his own was in view. Yet he heard a sound behind him, and, turning, saw, a tall, lean, hungry-looking dog behind him. Any companionship seemed better than the solitude of the green plain, the empty sky, and the pitiless sun. The dog was coming after him faster than he was walking. The dog would overtake him in time. No doubt the brute felt the loneliness as he did, and yearned for companionship of any kind. What was this? All at once the resistance to the progress of his feet seemed to have broken down. All at once the fiery agony had left his muscles. All at once the hurtful brightness of the green had deserted the grass. All at once the mad fervour had been withdrawn from the rays of the sun, and in its place had come a jocund, sprightly warmth, which surrounded the body like a soothing vapour, and drew upwards from the grasses healing balms. The solitude of the prairie was broken by the presence of the dog. The impediment in his progress had been laid. The fever had departed from his body, and he felt refreshed, invigorated. Now he cared not how far he had to journey forward. He had the companionship of the dog, the vigour of youth, a soft and level way, and the freshness of an early summer morning around him. Out of a life of hideous and useless labour he had been lifted into a life of vernal joyousness. He did not care now whether the toil of his march should finish with the day. In so far as he was, he was absolutely happy, and when the dog overtook him, and he could speak to and fondle it, he should desire no more. He looked over his shoulder. The dog was still a long way in the rear, but seemed to be overhauling him foot by foot. He called to the brute. It did not bark or look up. It seemed to take no notice of his voice, but kept on slowly, now diverging a little to one side, now to the other, but mainly keeping in a right line with him. What was there about this dog which seemed, now that it was closer, disconcerting? The brute came forward, hanging its head low, and as he swayed out of the right line of approach he snapped as though flies were attacking him, although no flies were on the plain. Then there was something wrong about his eyes and mouth. Although Lavirotte called him he did not look up, and the jaws of his mouth were not closed, and the teeth of his mouth were visible, and in the angles of the jaws there was foam. The brute was now within fifty yards of him, and just at the moment when Lavirotte's uneasiness at the unusual appearance of the dog had gained its height, something strange happened to the ground upon which Lavirotte was walking. It grew soft, spongy, lutulent. His feet, which a few moments before had been full of springy vigour, were now clogged with the heavy mud into which, as he went onward, he at every step sank more and more, until at last he found he could make no further progress and was held immovably fixed. Moment by moment he sank deeper. The mud now reached his knees, his hips, his waist, his ribs. Only his head and shoulders rose above this devouring quicksand. Then, as he believed all was lost, and when the mud had reached his arm-pits, the dog overtook him, and moving slowly, stood in front of him. With a wild shriek Lavirotte thrust forth his arms and seized the huge ears of the bloodhound, crying: "He is mad! The dog is mad! I know it. We have always known this kind of thing, we Lavirottes." The dog snapped at both his arms. With superhuman efforts, Lavirotte avoided the fangs. All at once, with a wild growl and incredible strength, the bloodhound thrust his head forward and drove his long yellow fangs into Lavirotte's chin. The eyes of the man and the eyes of the beast were now fixed on one another, and the eyes of the man saw that the eyes of the beast were those of Eugene O'Donnell. With a scream Lavirotte started to his feet--awake. This was the morning of Dora's funeral.