But whatever it was, the fact remained
that the farmer's slumbers that night were very profound, his snoring
heavier than common. Towards morning, but whilst yet the night was dark,
dreaming that he and the mare were swimming a deep and icy river, he
woke with a start. Everything was strangely still; even the mare made no
sound. And--surely it must be freezing! He was chilled to the bone. And
then, on a brain where yet sang the fumes of brandy, it dawned that he
had absolutely no covering on him. Sleepily he felt with his hands this
way and that, up and down. To no purpose. His blankets must certainly
have fallen on the floor, but try as he might, no hand could he lay on
them. Slipping out of bed to grope for flint and steel wherewith to
strike a light, with soul-rending shock he ran his forehead full butt
against the open door of his room.
"De'il tak' it! What's this?" he bellowed. It was inconceivable that he
had forgotten to close and lock that door before getting into bed,
however much brandy he might have drunk overnight. What was the meaning
of it? At last a light, got from the smouldering kitchen fire, revealed
the hideous truth--his room was empty, the cherished mare gone! The door
(as he had found to his cost) stood wide open; along the floor were
carefully spread his blankets, and over them no doubt the mare had been
led out without making noise sufficient to awaken even a light sleeper,
let alone one whose potations had been deep as the farmer's.
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