It was about eight o'clock on Sunday evening. McMahon and Leroyer had
watched all through Saturday night and all through Sunday close to the
house, hidden from view in the bush. They were wetted through with the
snow; they were cold and hungry.
In the gathering darkness two men passed them, knocked at the cottage
door and entered.
"Did you see who they were?" McMahon asked.
"No," said his companion. "But see! they have lit the lamp; I'll creep
forward and look through."
The scout crept towards the window on his hands and knees. He was as
lithe and stealthy as a panther. He raised his head and looked in.
"My God, it's Morrison," he said to himself, as he crept back to his
companion.
"It's Morrison," he said in an eager whisper. "I saw him sitting on a
chair, talking to his mother. We have him when he comes out. How'll we
take him?"
"We must call upon him to surrender, and if he refuses we must fire so
as to lame, but not to hurt him."
At the moment that the glowing eyes of the scout looked in through the
window, Donald was sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor talking
to his mother, who was filling a bottle of milk for him.
"I'm to meet M---- in the morning in the woods, and then I'm going to
surrender. The police by this time know my intention."
"You have acted wisely, Donald," his mother said. "We will all see that
you get a fair trial. My poor hunted boy, what have you suffered during
the past twelve months. Anything would be better than this. You are
liable to be caught at any moment--perhaps shot."
"Have no fear, mother, on that score. I hope I am acting for the best in
giving myself up."
"I'm sure you are, Donald. Here's your bottle of milk and your blanket."
"I don't know what may happen before we meet again, mother. Good-bye,"
and he bent down and kissed her withered face.
He opened the door, and went out into the darkness. "Throw up your
hands," a ringing voice exclaimed.
"My God, I'm betrayed at last," Donald muttered, as he leaped the fence
close to the house, and made a straight line for the woods.
McMahon and the scout leaped from their concealment, followed hard upon
the fugitive, and fired repeatedly at him from their revolvers.
Could he escape?
He had fronted worse perils than this. Would fortune still smile upon
him, or, deserting him in the moment of supreme need, leave him to
destiny? The darkness favored him. The dense woods were near. Would he
be able to reach them in safety?
McMahon and Leroyer, by simply going up to the door, and grasping the
outlaw firmly the moment he came out, might have made the capture in a
perfectly certain though commonplace manner. Both might be forgiven,
however, for a little nervousness and excitement. The prize was within
their grasp. For this moment they had lain out in the snow, wet and
hungry. Brought suddenly face to face with the moment, the moment was a
little too big for them. Neither of the pursuers aimed very steadily.
They grasped their revolvers, and made red punctures in the night.
What was that? A cry of pain.
The pursuers came up, and saw a figure totter and fall at their feet.
"You have caught me at last," Donald said; "but had the truce been kept,
you never could have taken me."
The outlaw was wrapped in blankets and conveyed to Sherbrooke prison,
and the following morning the papers announced all over the Dominion
that "Donald Morrison, the famous outlaw, who had defied every effort of
the Government for twelve months, had been captured, after having been
severely wounded in the hip by a revolver shot."
In the jail Donald said--"I was taken by treachery."
But the outlaw had been secured!
CONCLUSION.
It was dreadfully unromantic, but Minnie did not fall into a decline.
She is alive and well at this moment. Life may be over, and yet we may
live functionally through long stagnant years. Life is not a calendar
of dates, but of feelings. Minnie will live a calm, chastened life. She
cannot love again; but she is not soured by her experience. She will be
one of those rare old maids who are so sweet and wholesome that even
youth, hot and impatient, tenders cordial homage to them.
Minnie braves her sorrow bravely. To look at her one would not suspect
that she had ever passed through deep suffering. Disappointment and
loss either curl the lips in bitter cynicism, or give them so soft, so
gracious, so touching an expression, as make their caress, falling upon
the wretched and forsaken, a benediction. When suffering steels the
heart, and poises the nature in an attitude of silent scorn for the
worst affront of fortune, it is fatal. It takes the life simply. That is
all. When it melts the heart, pity finds a soft place, and the ministry
of sorrow becomes, not a phrase, but an experience. Very few know
Minnie's secret. Her parents never mention the name of Donald Morrison.
She quietly goes about her modest duties, and the few poor old people in
the village left desolate in their old age, when the shadows lengthen,
and, the gloom of the long night is gathering, find that she has
"A tear for pity,
And a hand open as day for melting charity."
THE END.