“It was a miserable accident, father. I did not steal.”
“Bah! Lies come easily to such as you; but I have no words to waste, there is no time for that.”
“No, father; quick, before it is too late,” whispered Louise. “Let him go; let him escape to France—to repent, father. He is your son.”
“No. I disown him. And you counsel this—you, girl?”
“Yes, father, you will spare him,” sobbed Louise; “he is my brother.”
“He has broken those ties; neither son nor brother to us, my child. He has blasted your future by branding you as a convict’s sister, and embittered the few years left to me, so that I would gladly end them now.”
“Father!”
“Hush, my child! I am rightly punished for my weakness. I hoped that he would change. I was not blind, only patient, for I said that these follies would soon pass, and now I am awakened to this. My son in the hands of the police!” he laughed in a wild, discordant tone. “Monsieur Le Comte des Vignes, I must have been mad.”
“Go!” said Harry, fiercely. “Trample me down. There, let me pass. Better in the hands of the police than here.”
“No, no!” cried Louise excitedly. “Father, he must escape. It is one great horror, do not make it worse by letting him go there.”