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.