"Where are we?" said Pierre, piteously.
"In the Dismal Swamp," said Ralph.
"Amongst toads and snakes," cried another.
At this moment half-a-dozen lights appeared in various directions.
"Good heavens, the place is alive with marsh fires."
"They are what the English call Jack-o'-lanterns."
"They are ignes fatui," said Pierre.
"They are the souls of unbaptized babies," said Ralph. "Let us try
to return to the firm ground we have left."
More easily said than done. Our unfortunate Normans struggled
vainly in the darkness and in the mire, uttering piteous
exclamations--cold and frozen, and mocked ever and anon by some
blazing light. Many a vow did they make to our Lady of Sorrows, and
to St. Erroutt, St. Gervaise, St. Denys, and every other Norman
saint, till somebody suggested that the English saints might know
more about the morass, and they condescended to appeal to St. Chad
(mighty in those parts), beseeching his help in their distress.
Suddenly a piercing cry told that one was being swallowed up in
some quicksand; but they could give no aid, and only shudder in
helplessness.
At that moment Etienne caught hold of the loose leash by which one
of the dogs was secured.
"Let us follow the dogs," he said; "they always scent out firm
ground.
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