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. CHAPTER XVI. When Lavirotte got to Charterhouse Square there was little time to lose. Already the hearse and two mourning coaches were there. To himself he seemed not more than half awake. He went about the place like a man in a dream. He saw certain things occur, and he knew they were incidental to a funeral, but he made no connection between them and Dora, between them and his own heart. He was a shadow attending the obsequies of a wraith. He was now connected with nothing material, and nothing connected with matter was now going forth. There was in his mind a formula which he adopted from others--namely, Dora Harrington was about to be buried, but this had no relation to his past, his present, or his future.