So she commenced to run at the top of her speed, and her form grew dim and more indistinct every minute, as a slight haze was descending from the hills and enveloping the valley in mist. "Confound you!" said Smithers to Harold, "will you do what I told you?" "What?" asked Harold, with the same provoking calmness. "Don't ask me questions, when you know very well what I mean. Go after your sister." "Oh, she's all right. The robbers won't hurt her, and you know very well where she has gone." Smithers was now in an ungovernable fury. His troubles and trials of late had not served to improve what was always a hasty temper, and to add to this he had given way to habits of drinking since quitting New York. Even that morning he had indulged in sundry drams, which he had taken from a flask he carried in his pocket. "If you don't do what I tell you, by thunder! I'll make you!" he cried. Invitingly near him, at the rear of the wagon, were his pistols. He seized one and pointed it at Harold. "Now, you young whelp!" he almost screamed, so beside himself was he with excitement, "will you obey me?" "I'm all hunk," replied Harold, thinking his father was only trying to frighten him. At that moment the pistol exploded. Whether Smithers pulled the trigger intentionally or whether it went off accidentally, we will charitably leave open to doubt. Certain it is that Harold fell from the wagon to the ground, which instantly became deluged with his blood. He groaned heavily, as if suffering acute agony. With a cry of alarm, Smithers cast the pistol from him, as if it had been a snake. "Good Heaven! what have I done?" he exclaimed. Running to the side of Harold, he raised up his head. The eyes were glazing fast, and he drew his breath with the utmost difficulty. "Oh, Harold, my boy!" cried the wretched father. "Speak to me, speak!" "Father, forgive," was all the boy could gasp. "For Heaven's sake! say you are not dying, Harold--my own! Speak to me, Harold!" A faint smile curled round the corners of his livid lips. There was a rattling sound in the throat, and Harold had ceased to live. "Oh, Heaven, be good to me. I have slain my son!" exclaimed Smithers, throwing himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief. He remained in a condition of stupor for more than an hour, resembling a man who had been stunned by a heavy blow. At length he roused himself, and rising, looked around with a shudder. There lay the body of his son Harold, stiff and cold in the embrace of death. No blandishments, no caresses, no power on earth could bring him back to life. In the midst of that solitude an awful sense of loneliness stole over the soul of the guilty man. He was the murderer of his child. His wife was a captive in the hands of a robber, and his daughter Alice had gone to join in her captivity. All--all had left him.