rays, beheld a spectacle which burned itself indelibly upon her memory.  A group of five gentlemen stood beneath the dripping chestnut and sweet-gum arches; one leaned against the trunk of a tree, two were conversing eagerly in undertones, and two faced each other fifteen paces apart, with pistols in their hands.  Ere she could comprehend the scene, the brief conference ended, the seconds resumed their places to witness another fire, and like the peal of a trumpet echoed the words: 

“Fire!  One!—­two!—­three!”

The flash and ringing report mingled with the command and one of the principals threw up his arm and fell.  When with horror in her wide-strained eyes and pallor on her lips, the child staggered to the spot, and looked on the prostrate form, he was dead.  The hazel eyes stared blankly at the sky, and the hue of life and exuberant health still glowed on the full cheek; but the ball had entered the heart, and the warm blood, bubbling from his breast, dripped on the glistening grass.  The surgeon who knelt beside him took the pistol from his clenched fingers, and gently pressed the lids over his glazing eyes.  Not a word was uttered, but while the seconds sadly regarded the stiffening form, the surviving principal coolly drew out a cigar, lighted and placed it between his lips.  The child’s eyes had wandered to the latter from the pool of blood, and now in a shuddering cry she broke the silence: 

“Murderer!”

The party looked around instantly, and for the first time perceived her standing there in their midst, with loathing and horror in the gaze she fixed on the perpetrator of the awful deed.  In great surprise he drew back a step or two, and asked gruffly: 

“Who are you?  What business have you here?”

“Oh! how dared you murder him?  Do you think God will forgive you on the gallows?”

He was a man probably twenty-seven years of age—­singularly fair, handsome, and hardened in iniquity, but he cowered before the blanched and accusing face of the appalled child; and ere a reply could be framed, his friend came close to him.

“Clinton, you had better be off; you have barely time to catch the Knoxville train, which leaves Chattanooga in half an hour.  I would advise you to make a long stay in New York, for there will be trouble when Dent’s brother hears of this morning’s work.”

“Aye!  Take my word for that, and put the Atlantic between you and Dick Dent,” added the surgeon, smiling grimly, as if the anticipation of retributive justice afforded him pleasure.

“I will simply put this between us,” replied the homicide, fitting his pistol to the palm of his hand; and as he did so, a heavy antique diamond ring flashed on his little finger.

“Come, Clinton, delay may cause you more trouble than we bargained for,” urged his second.

Without even glancing toward the body of his antagonist, Clinton scowled at the child, and, turning away, was soon out of sight.