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But the click of a revolver sharply halted his first sentence, as Dan Hopkins jumped to his feet with a sudden, swift movement of his right arm. A dozen men leaped forward with outstretched arms crying, “Stop! Stop!”

But even before they could reach him the report rang through the room, and just as they seized the father’s arms the son dropped to the floor, dead. He waved back the men who were pressing around him.

“Stop!” he cried. “Stand back a minute!” And they fell back instinctively.

He walked calmly to the judge’s desk and laid down his smoking pistol. Then he folded his arms and faced about, with head thrown back, flashing eyes, and colorless face. He looked at the sheriff, who, with the sense of official duty strong upon him, had stepped out from the huddled crowd and was coming toward him.

“Wait one minute, let me speak,” he said. “I believe you are all my friends, for I have lived most of my life here, among you, and I hope I have the respect and confidence and friendship of you all. But that,” and his flashing eyes rested for a moment upon the sheriff, the lawyers, and then upon the judge, “must have no influence upon the penalty I shall pay for what I have just done. The knowledge has been bitter enough to me this afternoon that that poor boy there deserved death. For the first time I have been convinced that he was bad from the bottom of his heart, and that there was no hope for him. But with my own hand I have killed him, that he might be saved the last horror and disgrace. Let them, and the law’s justice, be my portion, for I deserve them for having given him life in the first place. Mine was the first sin, and it is right that I should suffer the disgrace and the penalty.”

He turned to the sheriff, holding out his arms for the handcuffs. “Now, I am ready. Arrest me.”