The going was heavy. Gordon had to pick his way through the mossy swamp,
leading the pack-horse by the bridle. Sometimes he was ankle-deep in
water of a greenish slime. Again he had to drag the animal from the bog
to a hummock of grass which gave a spongy footing. This would end in
another quagmire of peat through which they must plough with the mud
sucking at their feet. It was hard, wearing toil. There was nothing to
do but keep moving. The young man staggered forward till dusk. Utterly
exhausted, he camped for the night on a hillock of moss that rose like
an island in the swamp.
After he had eaten he fed his fire with green boughs that raised a dense
smoke. He lay on the leeward side where the smoke drifted over him and
fought mosquitoes till a shift of the wind lessened the plague. Toward
midnight he rigged up a net for protection and crawled into his
blankets. Instantly he fell sound asleep.
Elliot traveled next day by the compass. He had food for three days
more, but he knew that no living man had the strength to travel for so
long in such a morass. It was near midday when he lost his horse. The
animal had bogged down several times and Gordon had wasted much time and
spent a good deal of needed energy in dragging it to firmer footing.
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