A Son of the Gods - Ambrose Bierce

7/28/2019 A Son of the Gods - Ambrose Bierce

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/a-son-of-the-gods-ambrose-bierce 1/35



e Project Gutenberg EBook of A Son of the Gods, and A Horseman

e Sky, by

brose Bierce

is eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

most no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away o

-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includeth this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

tle: A Son of the Gods, and A Horseman in the Sky

thor: Ambrose Bierce

lease Date: June 4, 2009 [EBook #5661]

nguage: English

* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SON OF THE GODS ***

oduced by David Schwan, and David Widger

A SON OF THE GODS

and



A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY



By Ambrose Bierce

Including an Introduction by W. C.Morrow

Western Classics No. Four

The Photogravure Frontispiece

After A Painting by Will Jenkins



The Introduction

A SON OF THE GODS

A HORSEMAN IN THESKY



The Introduction

illiant and magnetic as are these two studies by Ambrose Bierc

d especially significant as coming from one who was a boy soldithe Civil War, they merely reflect one side of his original and man

ceted genius. Poet, critic, satirist, fun-maker, incomparable writer

bles and masterly prose sketches, a seer of startling insight,

asoner mercilessly logical, with the delicate wit and keenness of a

ing or an Addison, the dramatic quality of a Hugo,—all of these, an

ll in the prime of his powers; yet so restricted has been his outpd so little exploited that only the judicious few have bee

pressed.

though an American, he formed his bent years ago in Londo

here he was associated with the younger Hood on Fun. There h

d the foundation for that reputation which he today enjoys: th

stinction of being the last of the scholarly satirists. With that trainincame to San Francisco, where, in an environment equally a

nial, his talent grew and mellowed through the years. Then he wa

mmoned to New York to assist a newspaper fight against a gre

lroad, since the conclusion of which brilliant campaign easte

urnalism and magazine work have claimed his attention.

wo volumes, "The Fiend's Delight" and "Cobwebs from an Emp

kull" titles that would damn modern books—were collection

blished years ago from his work on London Fun. Their appearanc

ade him at once the chief wit and humorist of England, an

mbined with his satirical work on Fun, led to his engagement

ends of the exiled Eugénie to conduct a periodical against h

emies, who purposed to make her refuge in England untenable eans of newspaper attacks. It is easy to imagine the zest with whi



e chivalrous Bierce plunged into preparations for the fight. But th

uggle never came; it was sufficient to learn that Bierce would be th

chmond; the attack upon the stricken ex-empress was abandoned

hen he was urged in San Francisco, years afterward, to write mo

the inimitable things that filled those two volumes, he said that

as only fun, a boy's work. Only fun! There has never been sulicious fun since the beginning of literature, and there is nothin

tter than fun. Yet it held his own peculiar quality, which is not that

merican fun,—quality of a brilliant intellectuality: the keenness of

pier, a teasing subtlety, a contempt for pharisaism an

ueamishness, and above all a fine philosophy. While he has nev

st his sense of the whimsical, the grotesque, the unusual, he—

fortunately, perhaps—came oftener to give it the form of pure w

ther than of cajoling humor. Few Americans know him as

morist, because his humor is not built on the broad, rough lines th

e typically American. It belongs to an older civilization, yet it is jolli

an the English and bolder than the French.

all times his incomparable wit and satire has appealed rather e cultured, and even the emotional quality of his fiction is frequen

profound and unusual as to be fully enjoyed only by the intellectua

trammelled. His writing was never for those who could only rea

d feel, not think.

nother factor against his wider acceptance has been th

requency and fragmentary character of his work, particularly htire. No sustained fort in that field has come from him. His sati

as born largely of a transient stimulus, and was evanescent. Eve

s short stories are, generally, but blinding flashes of a moment in

e. He laughingly ascribes the meagerness of his output

dolence; but there may be a deeper reason, of which he

conscious. What is more dampening than a seeming lack preciation? "Tales of Soldiers and Civilians" had a disheartenin



arch for an established publisher, and finally was brought out by a

miring merchant of San Francisco. It attracted so much critic

ention that its re-publication was soon undertaken by a regul

use.

ad Bierce never produced anything but these prose tales, his rig

a place high in American letters would nevertheless be secure, anall his work, serious or otherwise, here is his greatest claim

pular and permanent recognition. No stories for which the Civil W

s furnished such dramatic setting surpass these masterpieces

ort fiction, either in power of description, subtlety of touch or litera

ish. It is deeply to be regretted that he has not given us more su

ose.

. C. Morrow.



A SON OF THE GODS

breezy day and a sunny landscape. An open country to right and le

d forward; behind, a wood. In the edge of this wood, facing then but not venturing into it, long lines of troops halted. The wood

ve with them, and full of confused noises: the occasional rattle

heels as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover th

vance; the hum and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound

numerable feet in the dry leaves that strew the interspaces amon

e trees; hoarse commands of officers. Detached groups rsemen are well in front—not altogether exposed—many of the

ently regarding the crest of a hill a mile away in the direction of th

errupted advance. For this powerful army, moving in battle ord

rough a forest, has met with a formidable obstacle—the ope

untry. The crest of that gentle hill a mile away has a sinister look

ys, Beware! Along it runs a stone wall extending to left and righteat distance. Behind the wall is a hedge; behind the hedge a

en the tops of trees in rather straggling order. Among the trees—

hat? It is necessary to know.

esterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fightin

mewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional kee

ttlings of musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy's, wldom knew, attesting some temporary advantage. This morning

ybreak the enemy was gone. We have moved forward across h

rthworks, across which we have so often vainly attempted to mov

fore, through the debris of his abandoned camps, among th

aves of his fallen, into the woods beyond.

ow curiously we regarded everything! How odd it all seemeothing appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects—a



d saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen everything relate

mething of the mysterious personality of those strange men wh

d been killing us. The soldier never becomes wholly familiar w

e conception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot dive

mself of the feeling that they are another order of beings, differen

nditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth. Th

mallest vestiges of them rivet his attention and engage his interee thinks of them as inaccessible; and, catching an unexpecte

mpse of them, they appear farther away, and therefore larger, tha

ey really are—like objects in a fog. He is somewhat in awe of them

om the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks

rses and wheels—the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass

aten down by the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this wa

thousands; they have not withdrawn by the country roads. This

gnificant—it is the difference between retiring and retreating.

at group of horsemen is our commander, his staff, and escort. H

facing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes w

th hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seemdignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers th

ass and says a few words to those about him. Two or three aide

tach themselves from the group and canter away into the wood

ong the lines in each direction. We did not hear his words, but w

ew them: "Tell General X. to send forward the skirmish line." Thos

us who have been out of place resume our positions; the me

sting at ease straighten themselves, and the ranks are reforme

thout a command. Some of us staff officers dismount and look

r saddle-girths; those already on the ground remount.

alloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes

ung officer on a snow-white horse. His saddle-blanket is scarle

hat a fool! No one who has ever been in battle but remembers hoturally every rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one b



s observed how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. That suc

lors are fashionable in military life must be accepted as the mo

tonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. They would see

have been devised to increase the death-rate.

is young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. He is all aglea

th bullion, a blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War. A wave orisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. But ho

ndsome he is! With what careless grace he sits his horse!

e reins up within a respectful distance of the corps commander an

lutes. The old soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows him.

ef colloquy between them is going on; the young man seems to b

eferring some request which the elder one is indisposed to grant us ride a little nearer. Ah! too late—it is ended. The young offic

lutes again, wheels his horse, and rides straight toward the crest

e hill. He is deadly pale.

thin line of skirmishers, the men deployed at six paces or so apa

w pushes from the wood into the open. The commander speaks

s bugler, who claps his instrument to his lips. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la! Th

irmishers halt in their tracks.

eantime the young horseman has advanced a hundred yards. He

ing at a walk, straight up the long slope, with never a turn of th

ad. How glorious! Gods! what would we not give to be in his plac

with his soul! He does not draw his sabre; his right hand hangsily at his side. The breeze catches the plume in his hat and flutte

smartly. The sunshine rests upon his shoulder-straps, lovingly, like

sible benediction. Straight on he rides. Ten thousand pairs of eye

e fixed upon him with an intensity that he can hardly fail to feel; te

ousand hearts keep quick time to the inaudible hoof-beats of h

owy steed. He is not alone—he draws all souls after him; we a

t "dead men all." But we remember that we laughed! On and o

aight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides. Not a look backward. Oh



would but turn—if he could but see the love, the adoration, th

onement!

ot a word is spoken; the populous depths of the forest still murm

th their unseen and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe there

ence absolute. The burly commander is an equestrian statue

mself. The mounted staff officers, their field-glasses up, aotionless all. The line of battle in the edge of the wood stands at

w kind of "attention," each man in the attitude in which he wa

ught by the consciousness of what is going on. All these hardene

d impenitent man-killers, to whom death in its awfulest forms is

ct familiar to their every-day observation; who sleep on hi

mbling with the thunder of great guns, dine in the midst

eaming missiles, and play at cards among the dead faces of the

arest friends,—all are watching with suspended breath and beatin

arts the outcome of an act involving the life of one man. Such is th

agnetism of courage and devotion.

now you should turn your head you would see a simultaneou

ovement among the spectators a start, as if they had received aectric shock—and looking forward again to the now dista

rseman you would see that he has in that instant altered h

ection and is riding at an angle to his former course. Th

ectators suppose the sudden deflection to be caused by a sho

rhaps a wound; but take this field-glass and you will observe that h

riding toward a break in the wall and hedge. He means, if not kille

ride through and overlook the country beyond.

ou are not to forget the nature of this man's act; it is not permitted

u to think of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the other hand,

edless sacrifice of self. If the enemy has not retreated, he is in forc

that ridge. The investigator will encounter nothing less than a line

ttle; there is no need of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to givarning of our approach; our attacking lines will be visib



nspicuous, exposed to an artillery fire that will shave the ground th

oment they break from cover, and for half the distance to a sheet

e bullets in which nothing can live. In short, if the enemy is there

ould be madness to attack him in front; he must be maneuvered o

the immemorial plan of threatening his line of communication, a

cessary to his existence as to the diver at the bottom of the sea h

-tube. But how ascertain if the enemy is there? There is but onay: somebody must go and see. The natural and customary thing

is to send forward a line of skirmishers. But in this case they w

swer in the affirmative with all their lives; the enemy, crouching

uble ranks behind the stone wall and in cover of the hedge, will wa

til it is possible to count each assailant's teeth. At the first volley

lf of the questioning line will fall, the other half before it cacomplish the predestined retreat. What a price to pay for gratifie

riosity! At what a dear rate an army must sometimes purchas

owledge! "Let me pay all," says this gallant man—this milita

hrist!

ere is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clea

ue, he might prefer capture to death. So long as he advances, the will not fire,—why should it? He can safely ride into the host

nks and become a prisoner of war. But this would defeat his objec

would not answer our question; it is necessary either that he retu

harmed or be shot to death before our eyes. Only so shall we kno

w to act. If captured—why, that might have been done by a ha

zen stragglers.

ow begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man an

army. Our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the cres

ddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it. H

s caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all. Some slig

vantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line.

were here, he could tell us in words. But that is now hopeless; hust make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him,



mpelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly

ssible—which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do. N

rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those maske

d shotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperativ

ty of forbearance. Besides, there has been time enough to forb

em all to fire. True, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be n

eat disclosure. But firing is infectious—and see how rapidly hoves, with never a pause except as he whirls his horse about

ke a new direction, never directly backward toward us, nev

ectly forward toward his executioners. All this is visible through th

ass; it seems occurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enem

hose presence, whose thoughts, whose motives we infer. To th

aided eye there is nothing but a black figure on a white horscing slow zigzags against the slope of a distant hill—so slowly th

em almost to creep.

ow—the glass again—he has tired of his failure, or sees his erro

has gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if

ke it at a leap, hedge and all! One moment only and he wheels rig

out and is speeding like the wind straight down the slope—towas friends, toward his death! Instantly the wall is topped with a fierc

l of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to, right and left. Th

as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of the rifle

aches us, he is down. No, he recovers his seat; he has but pulle

s horse upon its haunches. They are up and away! A tremendou

eer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of oelings. And the horse and its rider? Yes, they are up and awa

way, indeed—they are making directly to our left, parallel to the no

eadily blazing and smoking wall. The rattle of the musketry

ntinuous, and every bullet's target is that courageous heart.

uddenly a great bank of white smoke pushes upward from behin

e wall. Another and another—a dozen roll up before the thunder e explosions and the humming of the missiles reach our ears, an



e missiles themselves come bounding through clouds of dust in

r covert, knocking over here and there a man and causing

mporary distraction, a passing thought of self.

e dust drifts away. Incredible!—that enchanted horse and rid

ve passed a ravine and are climbing another slope to unv

other conspiracy of silence, to thwart the will of another armed hosnother moment and that crest too is in eruption. The horse rears an

ikes the air with its forefeet. They are down at last. But look again

e man has detached himself from the dead animal. He stands ere

otionless, holding his sabre in his right hand straight above h

ad. His face is toward us. Now he lowers his hand to a level with h

ce and moves it outward, the blade of the sabre describing

wnward curve. It is a sign to us, to the world, to posterity. It is

ro's salute to death and history.

gain the spell is broken; our men attempt to cheer; they are chokin

th emotion; they utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch the

eapons and press tumultuously forward into the open. Th

irmishers, without orders, against orders, are going forward aten run, like hounds unleashed. Our cannon speak and the enemy

w open in full chorus; to right and left as far as we can see, th

stant crest, seeming now so near, erects its towers of cloud, and t

eat shot pitch roaring down among our moving masses. Flag aft

g of ours emerges from the wood, line after line sweeps fort

tching the sunlight on its burnished arms. The rear battalions alon

e in obedience; they preserve their proper distance from th

surgent front.

e commander has not moved. He now removes his field-glass fro

s eyes and glances to the right and left. He sees the human curre

wing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide wave

rted by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking. Agadirects his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and aw



est. He addresses a calm word to his bugler. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la

e injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. It is repeate

all the bugles of all the subordinate commanders; the sha

etallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance, an

netrate the sound of the cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colo

ove slowly back, the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearin

eir wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.

h, those many, many needless dead! That great soul whos

autiful body is lying over yonder, so conspicuous against the se

lside—could it not have been spared the bitter consciousness of

in devotion? Would one exception have marred too much th

iless perfection of the divine, eternal plan?



A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY

ne sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861, a soldier lay in

ump of laurel by the side of a road in Western Virginia. He lay at fngth, upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his hea

on the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped h

e. But for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and

ght rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of his be

might have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post

ty. But if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, that beine just and legal penalty of his crime.

e clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a roa

hich, after, ascending, southward, a steep acclivity to that poin

rned sharply to the west, running along the summit for perhaps on

ndred yards. There it turned southward again and went zigzaggin

wnward through the forest. At the salient of that second angle walarge flat rock, jutting out northward, overlooking the deep vall

m which the road ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a ston

opped from its outer edge would have fallen sheer downward on

ousand feet to the tops of the pines. The angle where the soldier l

as on another spur of the same cliff. Had he been awake, he wou

ve commanded a view, not only of the short arm of the road and thting rock, but of the entire profile of the cliff below it. It might w

ve made him giddy to look.

e country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of th

lley to the northward, where there was a small natural meadow

rough which flowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley's ri

is open ground looked hardly larger than an ordinary dooryard, bas really several acres in extent. Its green was more vivid than th



the inclosing forest. Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs simil

those upon which we are supposed to stand in our survey of th

vage scene, and through which the road had some how made

mb to the summit. The configuration of the valley, indeed, was suc

at from this point of observation it seemed entirely shut in, and on

uld not but have wondered how the road which found a way out o

d found a way into it, and whence came and whither went thaters of the stream that parted the meadow two thousand fe

low.

o country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theater of wa

ncealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap, in whi

lf a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved

my to submission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. They ha

arched all the previous day and night, and were resting. At nightf

ey would take to the road again, climb to the place where the

faithful sentinel now slept, and, descending the other slope of th

ge, fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. Their hop

as to surprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of failur

eir position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they sureould, should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of th

ovement.

e sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young Virginia

med Carter Druse. He was the son of wealthy parents, an on

ild, and had known such ease and cultivation and high living

ealth and taste were able to command in the mountain country

estern Virginia. His home was but a few miles from where he no

y. One morning he had risen from the breakfast table and sa

ietly but gravely: "Father, a Union regiment has arrived at Grafton

m going to join it."

e father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment ence, and replied: "Well, go, sir, and, whatever may occur, do wh



u conceive to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, mu

t on without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we w

eak further of the matter. Your mother, as the physician ha

ormed you, is in a most critical condition; at the best, she cannot b

th us longer than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would b

tter not to disturb her."

o Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned th

lute with a stately courtesy which masked a breaking heart, left th

me of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courag

deeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to h

lows and his officers; and it was to these qualities and to som

owledge of the country that he owed his selection for his prese

rilous duty at the extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had be

onger than resolution, and he had fallen asleep. What good or ba

gel came in a dream to rouse him from his state of crime, who sh

y? Without a movement, without a sound, in the profound silenc

d the languor of the late afternoon, some invisible messenger

e touched with unsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness—

hispered into the ear of his spirit the mysterious awakening wohich no human lips ever have spoken, no human memory ever ha

called. He quietly raised his forehead from his arm and looke

tween the masking stems of the laurels, instinctively closing h

ht hand about the stock of his rifle.

s first feeling was a keen artistic delight. On a colossal pedesta

e cliff,—motionless at the extreme edge of the capping rock an

arply outlined against the sky,—was an equestrian statue

pressive dignity. The figure of the man sat the figure of the hors

aight and soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian god carted

e marble which limits the suggestion of activity. The gray costum

rmonized with its aerial background; the metal of accoutrement an

parison was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animain had no points of high light. A carbine, strikingly foreshortened, la



ross the pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right han

asping it at the "grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, wa

visible. In silhouette against the sky, the profile of the horse was c

th the sharpness of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air

e confronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider, turned sligh

way, showed only an outline of temple and beard; he was lookin

wnward to the bottom of the valley. Magnified by its lift against thy and by the soldier's testifying sense of the formidableness of

ar enemy, the group appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.

or an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he ha

ept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of a

ared upon that commanding eminence to commemorate the deed

an heroic past of which he had been an inglorious part. The feelin

as dispelled by a slight movement of the group: the horse, witho

oving its feet, had drawn its body slightly backward from the verg

e man remained immobile as before. Broad awake and keenly ali

the significance of the situation, Druse now brought the butt of h

e against his cheek by cautiously pushing the barrel forwa

rough the bushes, cocked the piece, and, glancing through thghts, covered a vital spot of the horseman's breast. A touch upo

e trigger and all would have been well with Carter Druse. At th

stant the horseman turned his head and looked in the direction

s concealed foeman—seemed to look into his very face, into h

es, into his brave, compassionate heart.

it, then, so terrible to kill an enemy in war—an enemy who h

rprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades—a

emy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for

mbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turne

nt, and saw the statuesque group before him as black figure

ing, falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. H

nd fell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until hce rested on the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentlema



d hardy soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.

was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from eart

s hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought th

gger; mind, heart and eyes were clear, conscience and reaso

und. He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him wou

t send him dashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of thldier was plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush—witho

arning, without a moment's spiritual preparation, with never so mu

an unspoken prayer, he must be sent to his account. But no—the

a hope; he may have discovered nothing; perhaps he is b

miring the sublimity of the landscape. If permitted, he may turn an

e carelessly away in the direction whence he came. Surely it will b

ssible to judge at the instant of his withdrawing whether he knows

ay well be that his fixity of attention—-Druse turned his head an

oked through the deeps of air downward as from the surface of th

ttom of a translucent sea. He saw creeping across the gree

eadow a sinuous line of figures of men and horses—some fooli

mmander was permitting the soldiers of his escort to water the

asts in the open, in plain view from a hundred summits!

use withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upo

e group of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through th

ghts of his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In h

emory, as if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of h

her at their parting: "Whatever may occur, do what you conceive

your duty." He was calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigid

osed; his nerves were as tranquil as a sleeping babe's—not

mor affected any muscle of his body; his breathing, until suspende

the act of taking aim, was regular and slow. Duty had conquere

e spirit had said to the body: "Peace, be still." He fired.

n officer of the Federal force, who, in a spirit of adventure or in queknowledge, had left the hidden bivouac in the valley, and, wi



mless feet, had made his way to the lower edge of a small ope

ace near the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to ga

pushing his exploration further. At a distance of a quarter-mi

fore him, but apparently at a stone's throw, rose from its fringe

nes the gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height abov

m that it made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a shar

gged line against the sky. At some distance away to his right esented a clean, vertical profile against a background of blue sky

point half the way down, and of distant hills hardly less blue, thenc

the tops of the trees at its base. Lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitud

its summit, the officer saw an astonishing sight—a man o

rseback riding down into the valley through the air!

raight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in th

ddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from to

petuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streame

ward, waving like a plume. His hands were concealed in the clou

the horse's lifted mane. The animal's body was as level as if eve

of-stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those

wild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all thgs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. B

s was a flight!

led with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman

e sky-half believing himself the chosen scribe of some ne

ocalypse, the officer was overcome by the intensity of h

motions; his legs failed him and he fell. Almost at the same insta

heard a crashing sound in the trees—a sound that died without a

ho—and all was still.

e officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar sensation of a

raded shin recalled his dazed faculties. Pulling himself together, h

n obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its fooereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he natura



led. In the fleeting instant of his vision his imagination had been s

ought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of th

arvelous performance that it did not occur to him that the line

arch of aerial cavalry is directly downward, and that he could find t

jects of his search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-hour later h

turned to camp.

is officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredib

th. He said nothing of what he had seen. But when the command

ked him if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to th

pedition, he answered:

es, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from th

uthward."

e commander, knowing better, smiled.

ter firing his shot, Private Carter Druse reloaded his rifle an

sumed his watch. Ten minutes had hardly passed when a Feder

rgeant crept cautiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neith

rned his head nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign cognition.

id you fire?" the sergeant whispered.

t what?"

horse. It was standing on yonder rock-pretty far out. You see it longer there. It went over the cliff."

e man's face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotio

aving answered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. Th

rgeant did not understand.

ee here, Druse," he said, after a moment's silence, "it's no usaking a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anybody on th

rse?"



es."

Well?"

y father."

e sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "Good God!" he sai

Here ends No. Four of the Western

Classics containing A Son of the Gods

and A Horseman in the Sky by

Ambrose Bierce with an introduction by

W. C. Morrow and a photogravurefrontispiece after a painting by Will

Jenkins. Of this first edition one

thousand copies have been issued

printed on Frabriano handmade paper

the typography designed by J. H. Nash

published by Paul Elder and Companyand done into a book for them at the

Tomoye Press in the city of New York

MCMVII



d of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Son of the Gods, and

rseman in

e Sky, by Ambrose Bierce

* END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SON OF THE GODS ***

*** This file should be named 5661-h.htm or 5661-h.zip *****

is and all associated files of various formats will be found in:tp://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/6/5661/

oduced by David Schwan, and David Widger

dated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions

ll be renamed.

eating the works from public domain print editions means that noe owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundati

nd you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without

rmission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,

t forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply

pying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to

otect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project

tenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you

arge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. u

not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with th

les is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose

ch as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and

search. They may be modified and printed and given away--you m

actically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is

bject to the trademark license, especially commercial

distribution.



* START: FULL LICENSE ***

E FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

EASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free

stribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this wo

r any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Projecttenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Fu

oject

tenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at

tp://gutenberg.org/license).

ction 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Proje

tenberg-tm

ectronic works

A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm

ectronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agr

d accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property

rademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by a

e terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return

stroyl copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in yo

ssession.

you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project

tenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by t

rms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person o

tity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be

ed on or associated in any way with an electronic work by peopo

ree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few

ings that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electron

rks

en without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See

ragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do wi

oject

tenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of threement

d help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-



ectronic

rks. See paragraph 1.E below.

C . The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("t

undation"

PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Proje

tenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works

e

llection are in the public domain in the United States. If andividual work is in the public domain in the United States and y

e

cated in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent y

om

pying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivati

rks based on the work as long as all references to Proje

tenberg

e removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project

tenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works

eely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with t

rms of

is agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associat

th

e work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement b

eping this work in the same format with its attached full Projec

tenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located al

vern

at you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries a

constant state of change. If you are outside the United State

eck

e laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreemen

fore downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing

eating derivative works based on this work or any other Projecttenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representatio

ncerning

e copyright status of any work in any country outside the United

ates.

E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or othmediate

cess to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appe



ominently

enever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on whi

e

rase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phra

roject

tenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewe

pied or distributed:

is eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away o

-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License include

th this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work

rived

om the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that

sted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can

pied

d distributed to anyone in the United States without paying a

es

charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a wor

th the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing

e

rk, you must comply either with the requirements of paragrap

E.1rough 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the

oject Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or

E.9.

E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work

sted

th the permission of the copyright holder, your use a

stribution

st comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and aditional

rms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will

nked

the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the

rmission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of th

rk.

E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenber

cense terms from this work, or any files containing a part of th



rk or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribu

is

ectronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without

ominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E

th

tive links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project

tenberg-tm License.

E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,

mpressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, includi

y

rd processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access

stribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format oth

an

lain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version

sted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web si

ww.gutenberg.org),

u must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provi

py, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a co

on

quest, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or othe

rm. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenber

cense as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,

rforming, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works

less you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing

cess to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic worovided

at

You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive fro

e use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method

u already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is

ed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he

s agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to theoject Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments

st be paid within 60 days following each date on which you



epare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax

turns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and

nt to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the

dress specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to

e Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifi

u in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he

es not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tmcense. You must require such a user to return or

stroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium

d discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of

oject Gutenberg-tm works.

You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund

y

ney paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the

ectronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days

receipt of the work.

You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free

stribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Proje

tenberg-tm

ectronic work or group of works on different terms than are setrth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from

th the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael

rt, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the

undation as set forth in Section 3 below.

F.

F . 1 . Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expe

nsiderablefort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe a

oofread

blic domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm

llection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic

rks, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain

efects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or

rrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or oth

tellectualoperty infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other mediu



mputer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by

ur equipment.

F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for t

ight

Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Projec

tenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project

tenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project

tenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim allability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal

es. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT

ABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE

OVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE

ADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL N

ABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITI

CIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY

CH

MAGE.

F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a

fect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, y

n

ceive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending

itten explanation to the person you received the work from. If yceived the work on a physical medium, you must return the medi

th

ur written explanation. The person or entity that provided y

th

e defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in li

a

fund. If you received the work electronically, the person

tity

oviding it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity toceive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the seco

py

also defective, you may demand a refund in writing witho

rther

portunities to fix the problem.

F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund s

rthparagraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH

HER



RRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT N

MITED TO

RRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied

rranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types

mages.

any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violat

ew of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement sha

terpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitt

e applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of an

ovision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provision

F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundatio

e

ademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone

oviding copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works

cordance

th this agreement, and any volunteers associated with t

oduction,

omotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work

rmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including leg

es,at arise directly or indirectly from any of the following whi

u do

cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Proje

tenberg-tm

rk, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to a

oject Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

ction 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

oject Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of

ectronic works in formats readable by the widest variety

mputers

cluding obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists

cause of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations fro

ople in all walks of life.

lunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the

sistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenber



's

als and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will

main freely available for generations to come. In 2001, t

oject

tenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide

cure

d permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and futu

nerations.

learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archiundation

d how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4

d the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.

ction 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archiv

undation

e Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit

1(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the

ate of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal

venue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identificatio

mber is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at

tp://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenbe

terary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent

rmitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

e Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.

irbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees a

attered

roughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at

9 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, ema

[email protected]. Email contact links and up to date contact

formation can be found at the Foundation's web site and official

ge at http://pglaf.org

r additional contact information:

. Gregory B. Newby

ief Executive and Director

[email protected]

ction 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg

terary Archive Foundation

oject Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide



read public support and donations to carry out its mission of

creasing the number of public domain and licensed works that c

eely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the wide

ray of equipment including outdated equipment. Many sma

nations

1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exemp

atus with the IRS.

e Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating

arities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United

ates. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a

nsiderable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and ke

th these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations

ere we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To

ND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any

rticular state visit http://pglaf.org

ile we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states whe

ve not met the solicitation requirements, we know of

ohibition

ainst accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such stat

o

proach us with offers to donate.

ternational donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot mak

y statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from

tside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

ease check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation

thods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other

ys including checks, online payments and credit card donations.

donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate

ction 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electron

rks.

ofessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Proje

tenberg-tm

ncept of a library of electronic works that could be freely sharth anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project

tenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support



oject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed

itions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.

less a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily

ep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

st people start at our Web site which has the main PG searcility:

tp://www.gutenberg.org

is Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,

cluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary

chive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to

bscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Documents

A Son of the Gods - Ambrose Bierce