pended over the unconscious offender.

It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse carrying away the remains
of the ill-fated Sir Wynston Berkley had driven down the dusky avenue;
the autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston gloomily trod the
woods of Gray Forest, the withered leaves whirled drearily along his
pathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him were
rude and ungenial. It was a bleak and somber day, and as he broke into a
long and picturesque vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, he
suddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on which
he stood, an apparition, which for some moments absolutely froze him to
the earth.

Travel-soiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Merton, the murderer,
stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn
about and make his escape. On the contrary, he remained perfectly
motionless, looking upon his former master with a wild and sorrowful
gaze. Marston twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white as
death, and had he beheld the specter of the murdered baronet himself, he
could not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror.

"Take me, sir," said Merton, doggedly.

Still Marston did not stir.

"Arrest me, sir, in God's name! here I am," he repeated, dropping his
arms by his side; "I'll go with you wherever you tell me."

"Murderer!" cried Marston, with a sudden burst of furious horror,
"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," m