His bridle rein was broken, and caught at his feet as he moved about, throwing up his head in fright as much as viciousness.

I hastily looked at the saddle, but it bore no mark of anything unusual.

Not pausing to look farther, I caught the broken reins in my hand, and sprung into the saddle, spurring the horse down the lane and over the gate again, and back up the road which I knew my father must have taken.
There, at the side of the road, near the clump of blackberry vines and sumac growth, lay my father, a long dark blot, motionless, awesome, as I could see by the light of the moon, now just rising in a gap of the distant mountains.

I sprang down and ran to him, lifted his head, called to him in a voice so hoarse I did not recognize it.

I told him that it was his son had come to him, and that he must speak.