But the Parson did not pass on. He came close up to the boy as he stood there alone in the dusk, half trembling with fear, as the Parson approached. The strong man did not speak at first. His face was terrible with rage and a strange tumult of thought. The stars were half hidden by the sailing clouds, and the moon had not risen. It was almost dark. Away up on the mountain side a wolf called to his companion, and a lonesome night-bird, with a sharp cracked voice, kept up a mournful monotone in the canon below. The boy began to tremble, as the man towered up above him, and looked down into his uplifted face. "By God, youngster," muttered the man between his teeth. The boy sank on his knees, as he saw the Parson look up and down the trail, as if to make sure that no one was in sight. Then he reached his great hand and clutched him sharp by the shoulder: "Come here! come! come with me!" The broad hand tightened like a vice on the shoulder. The boy tried to rise, but trembled and half fell to the ground. The infuriated, half monster man, held tight to his shoulder, and led toward the precipice. The boy, half lifted, half led, half dragged, found himself powerless in the hands of the Parson, and was soon on the brink of the canon. "Now sir, damn you, what have you been doing at the Widow's?" The boy stood trembling before him. "Boy! do you hear; I intend to pitch you over the rocks, and break your infernal slim little neck!" The boy still was silent. He could not even lift his eyes. He was preparing to die. "Now sir, tell me the truth; what have you been doing at the Widow's?" The boy trembled like a bird in the clutches of a hawk, but could not speak. The Parson looked up the trail and down the trail; all was silent save the roar of the water in the canon below, the interrupted howl of the wolf on the hill, and the mournful and monotonous call of the night-bird. He looked up through the canon at the sky. It was a dark and cloudy night. Now and then a star stood out in the fresco of clouds, but it was a gloomy night. "Now you look here," and he shook the boy by the shoulder and laughed like a demon. "Don't you know that if you go on this way you will fall over this bluff some night and break your cussed little neck? Don't you know that? You boy! You brat!" Still the boy could not speak or even lift his face. "I'll save you the trouble," said the Parson between his teeth. "'The boys' will rather like it. They will say they knew you would break your neck some night." The boy did not speak, but beneath the iron clutch of the Parson settled to his knees. "Now sir, you have just one minute. Do you see that star? When that flying cloud covers that star, then you die! and may God help you--and me." The man's voice was husky with rage and from the contemplation of his awful crime. "Speak boy! speak! speak but once before I murder you!"