“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,” 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.

“Come, then,” said young Marston, seizing him by the collar, “come quietly to the house.  Guilty and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner, and, depend upon it, I shall not let you go.”

“I don’t want to go, I tell you, sir.  I have traveled fifteen miles today, to come here and give myself up to the master.”

“Accursed madman,” said Marston unconsciously, gazing at the prisoner; and then suddenly rousing himself, he said, “Well, miscreant, you wish to die, and, by ——­, you are in a fair way to have your wish.”

“So best,” said the man, doggedly.  “I don’t want to live; I wish I was in my grave; I wish I was dead a year ago.”

Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accompanied by Marston and his son Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeks before, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible.  When they reached the house, Merton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterly on seeing two or three of his former fellow servants, who looked on him in silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity.  These, too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon one pretence or another crossing and re-crossing the hall, and stealing hurried glances at the criminal.  Merton sate with his face buried in his hands, sobbing, and taking no note of the humiliating scrutiny of which he was the subject.  Meanwhile Marston, pale and agitated, made out his committal, and having sworn in several of his laborers and servants as special constables, dispatched the prisoner in their charge to the county gaol, where, under lock and key, we leave him in safe custody for the present.