"Donald, Donald." It was the voice of his mother, who now came quickly in exclaiming, "they are coming towards the house; away to the bush; quick."

Donald took Minnie's hand and wrung it hard. He bent down and kissed her forehead. "God bless you," he said—"farewell."

Then he rushed out of the house, and disappeared from view in the woods.

It was a party of five policemen, armed with rifles.

They were too late!



CHAPTER XXXII. MAJOR DUGAS MEETS THE OUTLAW FACE TO FACE—A UNIQUE INTERVIEW.

Minnie was right about the reinforcements, though the suggestion as to bloodhounds proved to be nothing but idle rumor. Fifteen men came from Quebec. The expedition numbered now thirty-five men. The search increased in rigor. The houses were visited day and night. The roads and the outskirts of the wood were watched almost constantly. Donald was not caught. He could not sleep in the houses of his friends, but he could make a bed in the woods. He could not venture to take a meal under a roof, but a neighbor woman could always manage to bring him a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk. The police visited his father's house, broke open his trunk, and took away all his letters, including poor Minnie's correspondence—an act which, when Donald knew of it, caused him to declare with an oath that if he met the man who did it, he would shoot him down like a dog.

Major Dugas was disgusted. He had been in the district nearly three weeks. He had tried conciliation. That had failed. He had tried severity. That, too, had failed. He had increased the searching force. That, also, had availed nothing.

When, therefore, three of Donald's firmest friends approached the Major with the proposition that he should order the suspension of operations while he held an interview with the outlaw, they found him not indisposed to listen to the extraordinary proposal. Donald was to be found, and his friends pledged their honor that he would meet the Major when and where he pleased, provided the latter would give his word that he would take no measures to arrest him.

Major Dugas hesitated for a long time, but finally accepted the terms. He was severely blamed in the press for parleying with an outlaw. Whatever maybe said about the wisdom of the arrangement, in scrupulously observing the terms of it, Major Dugas acted like a gentleman and a man of honor. That he should be blamed for honoring his own pledged word proves how crude is the common code of ethics.

Major Dugas ordered the suspension of operations. In the company of Donald's friends, he drove to Marsden; and there, in a rude log school-house, he was introduced to the famous outlaw.

"You are alone, Major Dugas," Donald said suspiciously, keeping his hands upon his pistols.

"Quite alone," the Major replied. "I have acceded to the wish of your friends, in order to avert the possibility of bloodshed. Now, Morrison, I ask you to surrender like a sensible man. Your capture is only a matter of time. The Government must vindicate the law, no matter at what cost. Give yourself up, and I will do what in me lies to see that you get the utmost fair play in your trial. I speak to you now in a friendly way. I have no personal feeling in the matter. I am the instrument of the law. If this pursuit is continued, there will probably be bloodshed either on one side or the other. You are only making your position worse by holding out; and think what it will be if there is any more shooting."

"The Major speaks reasonably, Donald," Morrison's friends said, "for God's sake, take his advice."

"Can the Major give me the $900 of which I have been defrauded, to help me to conduct my defence?" Donald asked.

"I have nothing to do with your money matters whatever," the Major replied. "I can make no terms with you of that nature. I am here to urge your surrender on the grounds of prudence, for the sake of your own interests."

"It was very kind of you, Major, to grant this interview," the outlaw said, "but I can't surrender unless you can give me some promise, either of money or an acquittal."

"Oh, this is absurd," the Major said. "Our interview ends. Within six hours the pursuit will be recommenced. My last word to you, Morrison, is, don't make your case hopeless by shooting any more."

"I will take your advice, Major. I give you my word," Donald replied.

"Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

Thus ended the memorable interview.

Major Dugas drove back to Stornaway in disgust. He ordered the resumption of the search, and upon the following morning left for Montreal.



CHAPTER XXXIII. THE EXPEDITION IS BROKEN UP.

Donald's friends were greatly disappointed. They fully expected that he would surrender himself to Major Dugas.

A few days subsequent to the interview it was announced that the expedition had been broken up. The Government had recalled all the men but five, who were left in charge of Detective Carpenter.

There was a tacit confession of failure.

The opposition press burst into a loud guffaw. "Was this the result of a year's effort to capture a criminal? Was this the return for all the expenditure which had been incurred?" The comic papers poked outrageous fun at the expedition. The illustrated journals mocked it in pen and ink sketches that smarted like aquafortis. The ribald versifiers flouted it in metrical lampoons whose burden was—"The man I left behind me."



CHAPTER XXXIV. CARPENTER ON THE SCENT—A NARROW ESCAPE.

Carpenter had five men at his disposal, and he was sanguine that an unremitting pursuit must end in the capture of the outlaw. Consequently, upon the removal of the bulk of the expedition, he set himself to make such disposition of his men as would lead to the most substantial results. Where did Donald get his food? Where did he get changes of clothing? He must pay visits to the houses in the neighborhood. They had been searched in vain. Very well. Let them be searched again. Let them be persistently watched. The outlaw would be tracked at last.

It was about ten o'clock at night. Dark, heavy clouds hung overhead like a mournful pall. A brooding darkness and silence enveloped the woods.

A figure parted the young branches, came out into the open, ran stealthily along the road, reached a small cottage, and disappeared within it.

Donald had tempted fate at a moment when fate, in the form of two eager officers of the law, was closing him in.

McMahon and the Indian scout were out that night. They had made a round of the cottages. Fatigued and a little dispirited, they were about to go back to their quarters, when a feeble glimmer of light was seen through the darkness, proceeding from the cottage which Donald had entered.

"Is it worth while to search it?" McMahon asked his companion doubtfully.

"Well," replied the scout, "we may as well take it in to wind up for the night. I don't suppose we'll have any luck."

"Not likely," McMahon said. Donald was eating a little plain supper, when the poor honest peasant woman whose hospitality he was sharing, thought she heard footsteps outside the door. She listened. "Donald," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, "I hear footsteps. They are approaching the door. It may be the police. What will you do?"

"I don't think they're about so late," Donald replied carelessly, feeling nevertheless for his pistols in his pockets.

"Donald, they're coming. It's the police. I'm sure of it. My God, if you should be taken. Here, quick! come into this bedroom, and lie quiet under the bed."

Donald sprang from his seat and did as he was directed. He was not a moment too soon.

The police knocked smartly at the door.

The woman opened it.

"Have you got Morrison here?" McMahon asked.

"Look and see," the woman replied.

The two men searched the four rooms of the small house, and then they sat down upon the bed beneath which, close to the wall, Donald was concealed!

"There's no use in stopping here," Leroyer said.

"No," replied McMahon, "we may as well go." As he spoke he carelessly ran the butt end of his rifle under the bed!

Donald grew to the wall, and held his breath!

The rifle conveyed no sense of contact. It was thrust in without conscious motive.

The police took their departure.

"What a narrow escape!" Donald said, when he had emerged from his hiding-place. His face showed pale beneath the bronze. The perspiration stood in beads upon his brow.

The friendly creature who sheltered him trembled like an aspen.

She had expected discovery, arrest, perhaps even bloodshed. She felt all a woman's exaggerated horror of police, and law, and violence.

"Forgive me," Donald said, "for coming near the house. I'll not trouble you again."



CHAPTER XXXV. ANOTHER TRUCE ASKED FOR.

The friends of the outlaw made a last effort to bring about an accommodation. A noted lawyer in Toronto had been written to, and had offered to defend him. They went to Donald, showed him the letter, and peremptorily insisted that he should give himself up, or be content to have all his friends desert him.

Perhaps the outlaw realized at last how severely he had tried his friends' patience.

"Very well," he said, "I agree to give myself up. Tell the police, and get them to suspend operations. Come back here and let me know what they say."

Detective Carpenter was seen, and the situation explained to him.

"Well," said he, "I don't believe in truces with outlaws. This thing has lasted long enough. But if you can rely upon this new attitude of the outlaw's, I would not be averse to a short suspension, though, if my men meet him before your next interview, they will certainly do their best to capture him."

Carpenter had placed two men—McMahon and Pete Leroyer (an Indian scout)—close to the outlaw's home, and told them to watch for him entering, and capture him at all hazards.

Carpenter knew that Donald must get his changes of clothing at his father's, and that a strict watch would sooner or later be rewarded.



CHAPTER XXXVI. SHOTS IN THE DARKNESS—DONALD IS CAPTURED.

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.