Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place.

And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive.

By George, there is another of those miserable ponies!" Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.
Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed over the moor.

It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.
"It's gone!" said he.

"The mire has him.