But presently they moved on,
keeping so to the horizon-line that it was plain my uncle's object was to
have the house full in view; and as thus they skirted the edge of heaven,
oh, how changed he seemed! His tall figure hung bent over the pommel, his
neck drooped heavily. And the horse was so thin that I seemed to see,
almost to feel his bones. Poor Thanatos! he looked tired to death, and I
fancied his bent knees quivering, each short slow step he took. Ah, how
unlike the happy old horse that had been! I thought of Death returning
home weary from the slaughter of many kings, and cast the thought away. I
thought of Death returning home on the eve of the great dawn, worn with
his age-long work, pleased that at last it was over, and no more need of
him: I kept that thought. Along the sky-line they held their slow way,
toilsome through weakness, the rider with weary swing in the saddle, the
horse with long gray neck hanging low to his hoofs, as if picking his
path with purblind eyes. When his rider should collapse and fall from his
back, not a step further would he take, but stand there till he fell to
pieces!
Fancy gave way to reality. I woke up, called myself hard names, and
hurried on a few of my clothes. My blessed uncle out in the night and
weary to dissolution, and I at a window, contemplating him like a
picture! I was an evil, heartless brute!
By the time I had my shoes on, and went again to the window, he had
passed out of its range.
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