Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried towrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it werea giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knewwhere he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand. His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible thatsomeone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softnessof the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand adozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig. Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second’s delay meantdeath. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. Thepit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out andfrom some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point.These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the pointssticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds andbranches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet withsweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of alightning-charred tree. He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet onthe soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of thegeneral’s cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was comingwith unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot.Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he seethe pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cryaloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branchesas the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain asthe pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place ofconcealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man wasstanding, with an electric torch in his hand.