He had grown weak in the knees and
was inclined to stumble. Riding one evening, I came to a little
bridge. I remember watching the rays of the sunset as I approached it.
Something too of my college work was in my mind, associated with the
evening colors. And then--well, there was no "then." The next I knew a
voice was calling, "Is that you?" And I was surprised to find that it
was. I was entering my own gateway, leading my horse. I answered
blindly, "Something has happened. I must have been riding. Perhaps I
have fallen." I put my hand to my face and found it bloody. I led my
horse to his post, entered the house, and relapsed again into
unconsciousness. When I came to myself, and was questioned about my
last remembrance, I recalled the little bridge. We went to it the next
day. There lay my riding whip. There in the sand were the marks of a
body which had been dragged. Plainly it was there that the accident
had occurred, yet it was three quarters of a mile from my house. When
thrown, I had struck on my forehead, making an ugly hole in it. Two or
three gashes were on other parts of the head. But I had apparently
still held the rein, had risen with the horse, had walked by his side
till I came to four corners in the road, had there taken the proper
turn, passed three houses, and entering my own gate then for the first
time became aware of what was happening.
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