that he would certainly turn, and then--what could happen? More
horses were advancing, and two beasts could not possibly pass each
other on that narrow ledge! But I was totally unprepared for the
ghastly thing that actually did happen. The miserable horse had
been seized with the awful mountain-madness that sometimes overtakes
men on stupendous heights,--the madness of suicide. With a frightful
scream, that sounded partly like a cry of supreme desperation, partly
like one of furious and frenzied joy, the horse reared himself to
his full height on the horrible ledge, shook his head wildly, and--
leaped with a frantic spring into the air, sheer over the precipice,
and into the foam beneath. His eyes glared as he shot into the void,
a great dark living mass against the white mist. Was he speared
on those terrible shafts of rock below, or was his life dashed out
in horrible crimson splashes against the cliffside? Or did he sink
into the reeling swirl of the foaming waters, and die more mercifully
in their steel-dark depths? I could not see. I saw only the flying
form dart through the mist like an arrow from a bow. I heard only
the appalling cry, like nothing earthly ever heard before; and I
woke in a panic, with hands tightly clasped, and my body damp with
moisture. It was but a dream--this awful picture; it was gone
as an image from a mirror, and I was awake, and gazing only upon
blank darkness.

--Atcham, Sept. 15, 1884





XXI. The Haunted Inn