The black surface of the mud rushed up at him. Arms flailing off balance, he hit on his side with a heavy splash. He heard Charlie's yell from above. He raised his head from the mud, tried to brush the stuff from his eyes. A soft and clinging pressure was warm against his legs, his waist. Through the mud in his eyes, he saw the dark flat plain of the swamp stretching away into the mist. Turning, he saw the perpendicular rock wall of the island rising above him. The hot ooze crawled up to his chest and in his nostrils was the fetid smell of the swamp, dank with the warm breath of ancient decay. The mud crawled higher. He struck out with his hands against it, struggled to pull himself upward but a grim suction tugged at his feet and legs, slowly drew his body downward. Then his wrists were caught in the irresistible pull. He couldn't move his arms. Looking down, he saw the black mire high on his chest. As he watched, fascinated, the mire rose higher. It was at his shoulders. Keen and swift, panic struck like a knife in his belly and his arms strained, every muscle in his body trembled with mad flight. But he couldn't move and the mud climbed to his throat. This is _it_, he thought, and pictures paraded through his mind, irrelevant flashes. He saw faces, dim in the mist above him, blurred with water and the mud in his eyes. He shook his head violently, the faces cleared. There was choking pain in his throat. The faces were of three men, and a woman. It was Vixen, looking down from the rock above. His head was strained back and upward against the rope, tight on his throat. He had stopped sinking. "Have you found your tongue?" It was the woman's voice. "Where is the mine? Speak! Tell me or you sink!" Flip stared at her and could say nothing. He was smothered with the noose on his neck. His eyes burned with the pain, with red hatred of the woman. "Let him down slowly." Her voice again. Flip stared up at her with mute passion. The mud caressed his chin, repulsive and warm. Slowly, he felt it creep higher, moist against the back of his head. "Speak, fool! Where is the mine?" He stared up at her with bulging eyes, couldn't speak. Her words were meaningless. He felt only the pain in his throat, the pressure of the mire against his body. He knew only that he hated the voice that spoke and that his body was weak with that hatred. The mud crawled into his ears and the voice stopped. The mud rose to his lips. He could taste the thick salty warmth of it. He closed his mouth tightly but the taste remained. The mud bubbled at his nostrils. He couldn't breathe. He saw the vast flat plain of black become level with his eyes. The mud covered his eyes. * * * * * The air was good and he gulped at it. He was lying on the rock. He felt his throat, wiped his face and saw somebody standing over him in the rain. The man had a scar across his cheek.