beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for
several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand
beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick to it; it is sand no
longer--it is glue.

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he
lifts his foot the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye,
however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and
tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes
the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous
little cloud of sand fleas continue to leap tumultuously over the
wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to
the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious.
Anxious about what? Only he feels somehow as if the weight of his feet
increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in.

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right
road; he stops to take his bearings. All at once he looks at his feet.
They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the
sand; he will retrace his steps; he turns back; he sinks in deeper.
The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws
himself to the left; the sand is half-leg deep. He throws himself to
the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with
unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has
beneath him the fearful medium in which man can no more walk than the
fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself
like a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his
knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains
on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far
off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over.