"Mercy! Spare me, brother—!"
The words were cut short by a quick movement on the part of Barkswell. He had sent the knife to the hilt in the bosom of the tramp.
"There, that ends your career," and with the words the young villain came to his feet.
He stood back with folded arms and watched the dying convulsions of his victim.
Soon the huge form lay quiet, the strong limbs stiffened in death.
A smile played on the features of Barkswell. Nevertheless his face was pale and drawn, and his breath came in short, hot gasps. It was no ordinary thing to take the life of a human being, much less to perpetrate the deed in cold blood.
"Now then the body must be disposed of," muttered Barkswell. "I cannot permit it to lay here."
He moved about and lifted a small trap in the floor. Through this he tumbled the body, and taking the candle, towered himself into a small, damp cellar.
It was a gloomy place.
The murderer must needs labor here for a time, however.