“Go,” he says gently; “you are free and safe. Go at once. That old woman will harm you if she can.”
With a start and a sudden bounding of her pulses, Leslie looks into the face of the Prodigal, only an instant, for he turns it away. And all bewildered, pallid and trembling, she yields to the gentle force by which the Priest compels her to move, mechanically, almost blindly, from the room.
The officers step back to let her pass. And as she reaches the outer air, she has a shadowy vision of Franz Francoise, with pistols in hand, standing at bay; of Mamma struggling in the grasp of the humble citizen, and uttering yells of impotent rage.
She feels the cool air upon her brow, and clasps the child closer in her arms, believing herself to be moving in a dream. Then the voice of the Priest assures her.
“Give me the child, Mrs. Warburton,” he says respectfully, “and lean on my arm. We have a carriage near.”
When Leslie had disappeared beyond the doorway, Franz Francoise throws down his pistols.
“Now then, boys,” he says quietly, “you can come and take me.”
With a yell of rage, Mamma hurls herself upon her captor.
“Let me go!” she shrieks. “Ah, ye brute, let me get at him! Let me kill the sneakin’ coward! Ah,” kicking viciously, and gnashing her teeth as she struggles to reach the Prodigal, “that I should have to own such a chicken-hearted son!”
The leader of the officers, handcuffs in hand, has approached Franz, and the others are closing about him.