And changing his direction a little, Bonneville took to the reeds. The matted roots of the water-plants had, in fact, made little islets of a foot or more in circumference, which gave a fairly good foothold over the boggy ground. The young man felt them, one after the other, with the end of his stick and stepped from each to each. 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." The young count had already sunk to the waist. Fortunately, he had time to put his sapling across the bog before him; and as each end rested on a tuft of reeds sufficiently strong to bear a weight, he was able, thanks to the support they gave, and aided by Petit-Pierre, who held him by the collar of his coat, to extricate himself from the dangerous place. Soon the ground became more solid; the black line of the woods which had all along marked the horizon came nearer and increased in height. The fugitives were evidently approaching the end of the bog. "At last!" cried Bonneville. "Ouf!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, slipping off Bonneville's shoulders as soon as he felt that the earth was solid beneath their feet. "Ouf! you must be worn out, my dear count." "Out of breath, that's all," replied Bonneville. "Good heavens!" cried Petit-Pierre; "to think that I should have nothing to give you,--not even the flask of a soldier or pilgrim, or the crust of a beggar's loaf!" "Pooh!" said the count; "my strength doesn't come from my stomach." "Tell me where it does come from, my dear count, and I will try to be as strong as you." "Are you hungry?" "I'll admit that I could eat something."