The men, there were a dozen by this time, scattered among the trees, Dick leading in the pursuit. Some ran from curiosity, interested to learn the turn events would take; others were bent on executing vengeance. None of them listened to Hertha who in her sweet, light voice was reiterating that the boy had done her no harm. It was very dark away from the lamp and Tom, who had dashed down one of the paths, turned among the trees and slipped along close to the bushes. He knew nothing of his way but he hoped in the obscurity to elude his pursuers until, weary with their search, they should turn back. He cursed himself for having brought trouble upon Hertha. "If I can jest hide for a space," he thought, "I reckon they'll all go away, and she won't be bothered no more." And crouching under a great bush filled with snow-white blossoms he waited for the men to pass. It would have turned out as he desired had not his first pursuer been a man from Georgia to whom a hunt for a Negro's skin was as justifiable as a hunt for the skin of a rabbit. And Dick's fury was at its height, for he had seen Tom touch Hertha's arm. He bent to the ground, deaf to everything but his work, and slipped among the bushes until he found Tom crouching close. Then with a great cry he sprang on the boy again. His grasp slipped and Tom was up and on once more, but this time men closed in about him to the right and left while Dick bellowed behind. Running on ahead as fast as his strength would carry him his foot slipped, and he fell headlong on the path close to the lake. Before he could rise Dick was striking him cruelly in the face. "Come on, boys," he cried, "somebody get a rope. We'll string this damned buck on the nearest tree!" "Let him alone," came Hertha's voice as she ran toward them through the trees. "Let him alone." Her call only infuriated her lover. Turning upon the black boy he kicked him with his boot; and as though he could not wait for the rope for which he had called, encircled his neck with his hands as though to strangle him. Then Tom uttered a cry. It was the first sound he had made, a broken sob, uttered unconsciously as the hands closed about his throat. To Hertha it was the cry of the baby who had been hers to tend and keep. She saw him running to her along the alley in their old home, his lip bleeding where a white boy had thrown a stone. She held her arms out to succor him, and, a child herself, caught him to her heart and wiped away his tears. Stretching her arms out again she prayed that she might help him now. And suddenly, like a bolt from heaven, the word came to her that should bring his release. She cried it at once, loudly, shrilly. "He's my brother," she called. "He's my brother, he's a right to speak to me!" And then, on the still hot air, "I'm colored, I'm colored!"