He could not fly, but he knew that if he wavered he was lost.
His mother was crying, but she sprang forward to meet him and clasped him
in her arms. "Oh, my boy, my boy," she sobbed, and she could say no
more.
Ernest was as white as a sheet. His heart beat so that he could hardly
breathe. He let his mother embrace him, and then withdrawing himself
stood silently before her with the tears falling from his eyes.
At first he could not speak. For a minute or so the silence on all sides
was complete. Then, gathering strength, he said in a low voice:
"Mother," (it was the first time he had called her anything but "mamma"?)
"we must part." On this, turning to the warder, he said: "I believe I am
free to leave the prison if I wish to do so. You cannot compel me to
remain here longer. Please take me to the gates."
Theobald stepped forward. "Ernest, you must not, shall not, leave us in
this way."
"Do not speak to me," said Ernest, his eyes flashing with a fire that was
unwonted in them. Another warder then came up and took Theobald aside,
while the first conducted Ernest to the gates.
"Tell them," said Ernest, "from me that they must think of me as one
dead, for I am dead to them.
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