It was at about
two o'clock in the afternoon that the disaster had occurred. It was
now fully three hours later, and the horse Ralph rode, fatigued and
wellnigh spent, was slipping its feet in the gathering darkness. He
turned its head towards Wythburn, and rode down to the city by Harrop
Tarn.
At the first house--it was Luke Cockrigg's, and it stood on the bank
above the burn--he left the horse, and borrowed a lantern. The family
would have dissuaded him from an attempt to return to the fells, but
he was resolved. There was no reasoning against the resolution
pictured on his rigid and cadaverous countenance.
The drizzling rain still fell and the night had closed in when Ralph
set his face afresh towards the mountains.
And now the sickening horrors of sentiment overtook him, for now he
had time to reflect upon what had occurred. The figure of the
riderless horse flying with its dead burden before the wind had fixed
itself on his imagination; and while the darkness was concealing the
physical surroundings, it was revealing the phantasm in the glimmering
outlines of every rock and tree.
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