CHAPTER XXVI: MY FATHER REACHES HOME, AND DIES NOT LONG AFTERWARDS
My father could walk but slowly, for George's boots had blistered his
feet, and it seemed to him that the river-bed, of which he caught
glimpses now and again, never got any nearer; but all things come to an
end, and by seven o'clock on the night of Tuesday, he was on the spot
which he had left on the preceding Friday morning. Three entire days had
intervened, but he felt that something, he knew not what, had seized him,
and that whereas before these three days life had been one thing, what
little might follow them, would be another--and a very different one.
He soon caught sight of his horse which had strayed a mile lower down the
river-bed, and in spite of his hobbles had crossed one ugly stream that
my father dared not ford on foot. Tired though he was, he went after
him, bridle in hand, and when the friendly creature saw him, it recrossed
the stream, and came to him of its own accord--either tired of his own
company, or tempted by some bread my father held out towards him. My
father took off the hobbles, and rode him bare-backed to the camping
ground, where he rewarded him with more bread and biscuit, and then
hobbled him again for the night.
"It was here," he said to me on one of the first days after his return,
"that I first knew myself to be a broken man.
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