The inarticulate sadness of the place brought a momentary feeling of
depression to Lynde, who was not usually given to moods except of the
lighter sort. He touched Mary sharply with the spurs and cantered up the
steep.

He had nearly gained the summit of the hill when he felt the saddle
slipping; the girth had unbuckled or broken. As he dismounted, the
saddle came off with him, his foot still in the stirrup. The mare shied,
and the rein slipped from his fingers; he clutched at it, but Mary gave
a vicious toss of the head, wheeled about, and began trotting down the
declivity. Her trot at once broke into a gallop, and the gallop into a
full run--a full run for Mary. At the foot of the hill she stumbled,
fell, rolled over, gathered herself up, and started off again at
increased speed. The road was perfectly straight for a mile or two. The
horse was already a small yellow patch in the distance. She was
evidently on her way back to Rivermouth! Lynde watched her until she was
nothing but a speck against the gray road, then he turned and cast a
rueful glance on the saddle, which suddenly took to itself a satirical
aspect, as it lay sprawling on the ground at his feet.

He had been wanting something to happen, and something had happened. He
was unhorsed and alone in the heart of the hill country--alone in a
strange and, it seemed to Lynde as he looked about him, uninhabited
region.




IV