"Please," said the voice. "I’m tired."
The old man‘s voice hardened. "You‘ve got to come. I can‘t let Anna be hurt again. You‘re our son. You‘re my son, and you belong to us."
"No, please!" The shadow trembled.
"You don‘t belong to this house or these people."
"No, don‘t do this to me!"
"Tom, Tom, Son, listen to me. Come back, slip down the vines, boy. Come along, Anna‘s waiting; we‘ll give you a good home, everything you want." He stared and stared upward, willing it to be. The shadows drifted, the vines rustled.
At last the quiet voice said, "All right, Father."
"Tom!"
In the moonlight the quick figure of a boy slid down through the vines. LaFarge put up his arms to catch him.
The room lights flashed on. A voice issued from one of the grilled windows. "Who‘s down there?"
"Hurry, boy!"
More lights, more voices. "Stop, I have a gun! Vinny, are you all right?" A running of feet.
Together the old man and the boy ran across the garden. A shot sounded. The bullet struck the wall as they slammed the gate.
"Tom, you go that way; I’ll go here and lead them off! Run to the canal; I’ll meet you there in ten minutes, boy!"
They parted.
The moon hid behind a cloud. The old man ran in darkness.
"Anna, I’m here!"
The old woman helped him, trembling, into the boat.
"Where’s Tom?"
"He‘ll be here in a minute," panted LaFarge.