Well, sunset came, and Ida the young and comely (Charley Langdon’s wife) and her little Julia and the nurse Nora, drove out at the gate behind the new gray horse and started down the long hill—­the high carriage receiving its load under the porte cochere.  Ida was seen to turn her face toward us across the fence and intervening lawn—­Theodore waved good-bye to her, for he did not know that her sign was a speechless appeal for help.

The next moment Livy said, “Ida’s driving too fast down hill!” She followed it with a sort of scream, “Her horse is running away!”

We could see two hundred yards down that descent.  The buggy seemed to fly.  It would strike obstructions and apparently spring the height of a man from the ground.

Theodore and I left the shrieking crowd behind and ran down the hill bare-headed and shouting.  A neighbor appeared at his gate—­a tenth of a second too late! the buggy vanished past him like a thought.  My last glimpse showed it for one instant, far down the descent, springing high in the air out of a cloud of dust, and then it disappeared.  As I flew down the road my impulse was to shut my eyes as I turned them to the right or left, and so delay for a moment the ghastly spectacle of mutilation and death I was expecting.

I ran on and on, still spared this spectacle, but saying to myself:  “I shall see it at the turn of the road; they never can pass that turn alive.”  When I came in sight of that turn I saw two wagons there bunched together—­one of them full of people.  I said, “Just so—­they are staring petrified at the remains.”

But when I got amongst that bunch, there sat Ida in her buggy and nobody hurt, not even the horse or the vehicle.  Ida was pale but serene.  As I came tearing down, she smiled back over her shoulder at me and said, “Well, we’re alive yet, aren’t we?” A miracle had been performed —­nothing else.

You see Lewis, the prodigious, humped upon his front seat, had been toiling up, on his load of manure; he saw the frantic horse plunging down the hill toward him, on a full gallop, throwing his heels as high as a man’s head at every jump.  So Lewis turned his team diagonally across the road just at the “turn,” thus making a V with the fence—­the running horse could not escape that, but must enter it.  Then Lewis sprang to the ground and stood in this V. He gathered his vast strength, and with a perfect Creedmoor aim he seized the gray horse’s bit as he plunged by and fetched him up standing!

It was down hill, mind you.  Ten feet further down hill neither Lewis nor any other man could have saved them, for they would have been on the abrupt “turn,” then.  But how this miracle was ever accomplished at all, by human strength, generalship and accuracy, is clean beyond my comprehension—­and grows more so the more I go and examine the ground and try to believe it was actually done.  I know one thing, well; if Lewis had missed his aim he would have been killed on the spot in the trap he had made for himself, and we should have found the rest of the remains away down at the bottom of the steep ravine.