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.

Look where he would, peering long and deep into the blackness of a night without moon or stars, without cloud or sky, with only a blank density around and about, Ralph seemed to see in fitful flashes that came and went--now on the right and now on the left of him, now in front and now behind, now on the earth at his feet and now in the dumb vapor floating above him--the spectre of that riderless horse.