"murderer--assassin--miscreant--take that!"

And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols he always carried
about him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, and
Merton made no other gesture but to clasp his hands together, with an
agonized pressure, while his head sunk upon his breast.

"Shoot me; shoot me," he said hoarsely; "kill me like a dog: better for
me to be dead than what I am."

The report of Marston's pistol had, however, reached another ear; and its
ringing echoes had hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a stern
shout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, Charles
Marston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him, and
from him again to Merton, with a guilty and stupefied scowl, still
holding the smoking pistol in his hand.

"What--how! Good God--Merton!" ejaculated Charles.

"Aye, sir, Merton; ready to go to gaol, or wherever you will," said the
man, recklessly.

"A murderer; a madman; don't believe him," muttered Marston, scarce
audibly, with lips as white as wax.

"Do you surrender yourself, Merton?" demanded the young man, sternly,
advancing toward him.

"Yes, sir; I desire nothing more; God knows I wish to die," responded he,
despairingly, and advancing slowly to meet Charles.