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<title>
The Hunted Outlaw, by Anonymous
</title>
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hunted Outlaw, by Anonymous
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Hunted Outlaw
Donald Morrison, The Canadian Rob Roy
Author: Anonymous
Release Date: August 6, 2009 [EBook #9331]
Last Updated: January 15, 2013
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUNTED OUTLAW ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger and
PG Distributed Proofreaders from images generously made
available by the Canadian Institute for Historical
Microreproductions
</pre>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h1>
THE HUNTED OUTLAW
</h1>
<h4>
OR
</h4>
<h2>
DONALD MORRISON, THE CANADIAN ROB ROY
</h2>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
By Anonymous
</h2>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h3>
<i>"Truth is stranger than Fiction."</i>
</h3>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="toc">
<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
</p>
<p>
<br /> <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE. </a><br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> DONALD MORRISON
APPEARS ON THE SCENE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.
</a> A LITTLE GIRL WITH YELLOW HAIR <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> "MINNIE, MINNIE," SHE
SAID, "I MUST GUARD MY SECRET." <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005">
CHAPTER V. </a> LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> "SUCH PARTINGS AS
CRUSH THE LIFE OUT OF YOUNG HEARTS." <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007">
CHAPTER VII. </a> "TO THE WEST, TO THE WEST, THE LAND OF THE
FREE." <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> HARD
TIMES AT HOME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> "BE IT
EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME." <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> "THE PRIDE OF THE
VILLAGE." <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> MODEST,
SIMPLE, SWEET <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> A
LETTER FROM DONALD <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> THE
BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV.
</a> A SHOT IN THE DARKNESS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016">
CHAPTER XVI. </a> "BURNT A HOLE IN THE NIGHT." <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> SUSPICION FALLS UPON
DONALD, AND A WARRANT IS ISSUED AGAINST HIM <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> HE THOUGHT OF HIS
WIFE AND FAMILY, AND HE RETURNED TO SHERBROOKE <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> THE TRAGEDY <br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> AFTERWARDS <br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> THE BLOW FALLS
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> WHAT
WAS DONALD ABOUT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> ACTION
OF THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT.—FIVE OFFICERS SENT TO MEGANTIC <br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> TELLS HOW THE
CONSTABLES ENJOYED THEMSELVES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025">
CHAPTER XXV. </a> PROOF AGAINST BRIBES! <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> THE REWARD FAILS
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a>
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> THE
HUNTED OUTLAW <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> DONALD
IN THE WOODS OF MEGANTIC <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER
XXX. </a> SECOND WEEK OF THE SEARCH—MAJOR DUGAS BECOMES
SEVERE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> "MANY
WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE." <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER
XXXII. </a> MAJOR DUGAS MEETS THE OUTLAW FACE TO FACE—A
UNIQUE INTERVIEW <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII.
</a> THE EXPEDITION IS BROKEN UP <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a> CARPENTER ON THE
SCENT—A NARROW ESCAPE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER
XXXV. </a> ANOTHER TRUCE ASKED FOR <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> SHOTS IN THE
DARKNESS—DONALD IS CAPTURED <br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <a
href="#link2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION. </a>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<h2>
PROLOGUE.
</h2>
<p>
Psychology strips the soul and, having laid it bare, confidently
classifies every phase of its mentality. It has the spring of every
emotion carefully pigeon-holed; it puts a mental finger upon every
passion; it maps out the soul into tabulated territories of feeling; and
probes to the earliest stirrings of motive.
</p>
<p>
A crime startles the community. The perpetrator is educated, wise, enjoys
the respect of his fellows. His position is high: his home is happy: he
has no enemies.
</p>
<p>
Psychology is stunned. The deed is incredible. Of all men, this was the
last who could be suspected of mental aberration. The mental diagnosis
decreed him healthy. He was a man to grace society, do credit to religion,
and leave a fair and honored name behind him.
</p>
<p>
The tabulation is at fault.
</p>
<p>
The soul has its conventional pose when the eyes of the street are upon
it. Psychology's plummet is too short to reach those depths where motive
has its sudden and startling birth.
</p>
<p>
Life begins with the fairest promise, and ends in darkness.
</p>
<p>
It is the unexpected that stuns us.
</p>
<p>
Heredity, environment and temperament lead us into easy calculations of
assured repose and strength, and permanency of mental and moral
equilibrium.
</p>
<p>
The act of a moment makes sardonic mockery of all our predictions.
</p>
<p>
The whole mentality is not computable.
</p>
<p>
Look searchingly at happiness, and note with sadness that a tear stains
her cheek.
</p>
<p>
A dark, sinister thread runs through the web of life.
</p>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER I.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor." <i>Gray</i>.
</pre>
<p>
The Counties of Compton and Beauce, in the Province of Quebec, were first
opened up to settlement about fifty years ago. To this spot a small colony
of Highlanders from the Skye and Lewis Islands gravitated. They brought
with them the Gaelic language, a simple but austere religion, habits of
frugality and method, and aggressive health. That generation is gone, or
almost gone, but the essential characteristics of the race have been
preserved in their children. The latter are generous and hospitable, to a
fault. Within a few miles of the American frontier, the forces of modern
life have not reached them. Shut in by immense stretches of the dark and
gloomy "forest primeval," they live drowsily in a little world where
passions are lethargic, innocence open-eyed, and vice almost unknown.
Science has not upset their belief in Jehovah. God is real, and somewhat
stern, and the minister is his servant, to be heard with respect, despite
the appalling length of his sermons. Sincerely pious, the people mix their
religion with a little whiskey, and the blend appears to give
satisfaction. The farmers gather at the village inn in the evening, and
over a "drap o' Scotch" discuss the past. As the stimulant works, generous
sentiments are awakened in the breast; and the melting songs of Robbie
Burns—roughly rendered, it may be—make the eye glisten. This
is conviviality; but it has no relation to drunkenness. Every household
has its family altar; and every night, before retiring to rest, the family
circle gather round the father or the husband, who devoutly commends them
to the keeping of God.
</p>
<p>
The common school is a log hut, built by the wayside, and the "schoolmarm"
is not a pretentious person. But, what the school cannot supply, a long
line of intelligent, independent ancestors have supplied, robust, common
sense and sagacity.
</p>
<p>
Something of the gloom and sternness of the forest, something of the
sadness which is a conscious presence, is in their faces. Their humor has
a certain savor of grimness. For the rest, it may be said that they are
poor, and that they make little effort to be anything else. They do a
little farming and a little lumbering. They get food and clothing, they
are attached to their homesteads, and the world with all its tempting
possibilities passes them by. The young people seek the States, but even
they return, and end their days in the old home. They marry, and get
farms, and life moves with even step, the alternating seasons, with their
possibilities, probably forming their deepest absorptions. It remains only
to be said that, passionately attached to the customs, the habits of
thought of their forefathers, the Highlanders of the Lake Megantic region
are intensely clannish. Splendidly generous, they would suffer death
rather than betray the man who had eaten of their salt. Eminently
law-abiding, they would not stretch out a hand to deprive of freedom one
who had thrown himself upon their mercy.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER II. DONALD MORRISON APPEARS ON THE SCENE.
</h2>
<p>
Life, could we only be well assured of it, is at the best when it is
simple. The woods of Lake Megantic in the summer cast a spell upon the
spirit. They are calm and serene, and just a little sad. They invite to
rest, and their calm strength and deep silence are a powerful rebuke to
passion.
</p>
<p>
Amongst the deep woods of Marsden, Donald Morrison spent his young years.
His parents were in fairly comfortable circumstances, as the term is
understood in Compton. Donald was a fair-haired boy, whose white forehead
his mother had often kissed in pride as she prepared him, with shining
morning face, for the village school. Donald was the pride of the village.
Strong for his years and self-assertive, the boys feared him. Handsome and
fearless, and proud and masterful, his little girl school-mates adored
him. They adored him all the more that he thought it beneath his boyish
dignity to pay them attention. This is true to all experience. Donald was
passionate. He could not brook interference. He even thus early, when he
was learning his tablets at the village school, developed those traits,
the exercise of which, in later life, was to make his name known
throughout the breadth of the land. Generous and kind-hearted to a degree,
his impatience often hurried him into actions which grieved his parents.
He was generally in hot water at school. He fought, and he generally won,
but his cause was not always right. He was supple, and he excelled in the
village games.
</p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER III. A LITTLE GIRL WITH YELLOW HAIR.
</h2>
<p>
Minnie Duncan went to the same school with Donald. She was a shy little
thing with big brown eyes, which looked at you wistfully, and a mass of
yellow hair, which the sun in the summer mornings loved to burnish. Minnie
at the age of ten felt drawn to Donald, as timid women generally feel
drawn toward masterful men, ignoring the steadier love of gentler natures.
Donald had from the start constituted himself her protector in a lordly
way. He had once resented a belittling remark which a schoolmate had used
towards her, by soundly thrashing the urchin who uttered it. Minnie pitied
the lad, but she secretly adored Donald. He was her hero. Donald was good
enough to patronize her. Minnie was too humble to resent this attitude.
Was he not handsome and strong, with fearless blue eyes; were not all her
little girl companions jealous of her? Did he not go to and come from
school with her and carry her books? Above all, had he not done battle in
her behalf?
</p>
<p>
Minnie Duncan was the only daughter of John and Mary Duncan, who lived
close to the Morrisons', upon a comfortable farm. She was dearly loved,
and she returned the affection bestowed upon her with the beautiful <i>abandon</i>
of that epoch when the tide of innocent trust and love is at the full.
They had never expressed their hopes in relation to her future; but the
wish of their hearts was that she might grow into a modest, God-fearing
woman, find a good farmer husband, and live and die in the village.
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV. "MINNIE, MINNIE," SHE SAID, "I MUST GUARD MY SECRET."
</h2>
<p>
Donald Morrison was now twenty-three. The promise of his boyhood had been
realized. He was well made, with sinews like steel. He had a blonde
moustache, clustering hair, a well shaped mouth, firm chin. His blue eyes
had a proud, fearless look. The schoolmarm had taught Donald the three
"R's"; he had read a little when he could spare the money for books; and
at the period we are now dealing with he was looked up to by all in the
village as a person of superior knowledge. His youth and young manhood had
been spent working upon his father's farm. Latterly he had been working
upon land which his father had given him, in the hope that he would marry
and settle down. He had become restless. The village was beginning to look
small, and he asked himself with wonderment how he had been content in it
so long. The work was hard and thankless. Was this life? Was there nothing
beyond this? Was there not not a great world outside the forest? What was
this? Was it not stagnation? The woods—yes, the woods were
beautiful, but why was it they made him sad? Why was it that when the sun
set against the background of the purple line of trees, he felt a lump in
his throat? Why, when he walked along the roads in the summer twilight,
did the sweet silence oppress him? He could not tell. He knew that he
wanted away. He longed to be in the world of real men and women, where joy
and suffering, and the extremest force of passion had active play.
</p>
<p>
Minnie was now a schoolmarm—neat and simple, and sweet. Her figure
was slender, and her hair a deep gold, parted simply in the centre,
brought over the temples in crisp waves, and wound into a single coil
behind. Her head was small and gracefully poised; her teeth as white as
milk, because they had never experienced the destructive effects of
confectionery; her cheeks, two roses in their first fresh bloom, because
she had been reared upon simple food; her figure, slight, supple and well
proportioned. She was eighteen. Her beautiful brown eyes wore a sweetly
serious look. She had thought as a woman. She was pious, but somehow when
she wandered through the woods, and noted how the wild flowers smiled upon
her, and listened to the birds as they shook their very throats for joy,
she could only think of the love, not the anger of God. God was good. His
purpose was loving. How warm and beautiful and sweet was the sun! The sky
was blue, and was there not away beyond the blue a place where the tears
that stained the cheek down here would be all wiped away? Sorrow! Oh, yes,
there was sorrow here, and somehow, the dearest things we yearned for were
denied us. There were heavy burdens to bear, and life's contrasts were
agonizing, and faith staggered a little; but when Minnie went to the woods
with these thoughts, and looked into the timid eye of the violet, she said
to herself softly, "God is love."
</p>
<p>
A simple creature, you see, and not at all clever. I doubt if she had ever
heard of Herbert Spencer, much less read his works. If you had told that
she had been evolved from a jelly-fish, her brown eyes would only have
looked at you wonderingly. You would have conveyed nothing to her.
</p>
<p>
I must tell you that Minnie was romantic. The woods had bred in her the
spirit of poetry. She loved during the holidays to go to the woods with a
book, and, seating herself at the foot of a tree, give herself up to
dreams—of happy, innocent love, and of calm life, without cloud,
blessed by the smile of heaven.
</p>
<p>
Love is a sudden, shy flame. Love is a blush which mounts to the cheek,
and then leaves it pale. Love is the trembling pressure of hands which,
for a delicious moment, meet by stealth. Love is sometimes the deep drawn
sigh, the languor that steeps the senses, the sudden trembling to which no
name can be given. Minnie was in love. The hero of her childhood was the
hero of her womanhood. She loved Donald modestly but passionately; but she
constantly said to herself in terror, "Oh, Minnie, Minnie, you must take
care; guard your secret; never betray yourself."
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER V. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"Oh, happy love, where love like this is found!
Oh, heart-felt raptures, bliss beyond compare!
I've paced this weary mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare,
If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
</pre>
<p>
Donald and Minnie had grown up together. They had shared in the social
life of the village. They had been to little parties together. They had
gone to the same church, sat in the same pew, sang the psalms from the
same book. They had walked out together in the summer evenings, and both
had felt the influence of the white moonlight which steeped the trees
along the Marsden road. They had, so to say, appropriated each other, and
yet there had been no word of love between them. They had spoken freely to
each other; their hands had touched, and both had thrilled at the contact,
and yet they were only friends! The village had settled it that they were
lovers and that they would be married, and felt satisfied with its own
decision, because both were popular.
</p>
<p>
It was a summer afternoon, and they were in the woods together. Minnie had
a basket for wild strawberries. None had been gathered. They were seated
at the trunk of a tree. Donald had told her that he thought of leaving the
country, and she felt stunned. Her heart stopped. She became as pale as
death.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Minnie," he said, "I am tired of this life. I want away. I want to
push my fortune. What is there here for me? What future is there for me? I
want to go to the States. I can get along there. This life is too dull and
narrow, and all the young fellows have left."
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps I feel too that it is a little dull, Donald," Minnie said, "but
not being a man, I suppose desires like yours would seem improper When you
go," and her voice trembled a little, "I will feel the dullness all the
more keenly."
</p>
<p>
"And do you think it will not cost me an effort to sever our friendship?"
Donald said with emotion; "we have been playmates in childhood and friends
in riper years. I have been so accustomed to you that to leave you will
seem like moving into darkness out of sunlight. Minnie," he went on,
taking her hand, and speaking with fervor, "can we only be friends? We say
that we are friends; but in my heart I have always loved you. When I began
to love you I know not. I feel now that I cannot leave without telling
you. Yes, Minnie, I love you, and you only; and it was the hope of
bettering my prospects only to ask you to share them, that induced me to
think of leaving. But I cannot leave without letting you know what I feel.
Just be frank with me, and tell me, do you return my love? I cannot see
your face. What! tears! Minnie, Minnie, my darling, you do care a little
for me!"
</p>
<p>
She could not look at him, for tears blinded her, but she said, simply,
"Oh, Donald, I have loved you since childhood."
</p>
<p>
"My own dear Minnie!" He caught her to his breast, and kissed her sweet
mouth, her cheek, her hands and hair. He took off her summer hat, and
smoothed her golden tresses; he pressed his lips to her white forehead,
and called her his darling, his sweet Minnie.
</p>
<p>
Minnie lay in his arms sobbing, and trembling violently. The restraint she
had imposed on herself was now broken down, and she gave way to the
natural feelings of her heart. She had received the first kisses of love.
She was thrilled with delight and vague alarm.
</p>
<p>
"Don't tremble, darling," he said, after a long silence.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, Donald, I can't help it. What is this feeling? What does it mean?"
</p>
<p>
It was unconscious passion!
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER VI. "SUCH PARTINGS AS CRUSH THE LIFE OUT OF YOUNG HEARTS."
</h2>
<p>
Donald had made up his mind to go West In vain his parents dissuaded him.
</p>
<p>
Young love is hopeful, and Donald had pictured reunion in such attractive
guise, that Minnie was half reconciled to his departure.
</p>
<p>
But the parting was sad.
</p>
<p>
Donald had spent the last evening at Minnie's parents.
</p>
<p>
The clock has no sympathy with lovers. It struck the hours remorselessly.
The parting moment had come. Minnie accompanied her lover to the door. He
took her in his arms. He kissed her again and again. He said hopeful
things, and he kissed away her tears. He stroked her hair, and drew her
head upon his breast. They renewed their vows of love.
</p>
<p>
Minnie said, through her sobs, "God bless you, Donald."
</p>
<p>
He tore himself away!
</p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER VII. "TO THE WEST, TO THE WEST, THE LAND OF THE FREE."
</h2>
<h3>
"Bully for Donald!"
</h3>
<p>
"Thar ain't no flies on him, boys, is thar?"
</p>
<p>
"Warn't it neat?"
</p>
<p>
"Knocked him out in one round, too!" The scene was a saloon in Montana.
Six men were gathered round a table playing poker. The light was dim, the
liquor was villainous, and the air was dense with tobacco smoke. It was a
cowboy party, and one of the cowboys was Donald Morrison. He had adopted
the free life of the Western prairies. He had learned to ride with the
grace and shoot with the deadly skill of an Indian.
</p>
<p>
'Twas a rough life, and he knew it. He mixed but little with the "Boys,"
but the latter respected him for his manly qualities. He was utterly
without fear. Courage is better than gold on the plains of Montana. He
took to the life, partly because it was wild and adventurous, partly
because he found that he could save money at it. The image of Minnie never
grew dim in his heart, and he looked forward to a modest little home in
his native village, graced and sweetened by the presence of a true woman.
</p>
<p>
On this night he had yielded to the persuasion of a few of the boys, and
went with them to "Shorty's" saloon for a game of "keerds."
</p>
<p>
"Shorty" had a pretty daughter, who was as much out of place amid her
coarse surroundings as violets in a coal mine.
</p>
<p>
She was quite honest, and she served her father's customers with modesty.
Kitty—that was her name—secretly admired the handsome Donald,
who had always treated her with respect upon the infrequent occasions of
his visits.
</p>
<p>
On this night, while the party were at cards, "Wild Dick" Minton entered.
He was a desperado, and it was said that he had killed at least two men in
his time.
</p>
<p>
"Wild Dick" swaggered in, roughly greeted the party, called for drink, and
sat down in front of a small table close to the card players.
</p>
<p>
Kitty served him with the drink.
</p>
<p>
"Well, Kitty," he said with coarse gallantry, "looking sort o' purty
to-night, eh? Say, gimme a kiss, won't yer?"
</p>
<p>
Kitty blushed crimson with anger, but said nothing.
</p>
<p>
"Wild Dick" got up and took her chin in his hand.
</p>
<p>
"How dare you?" she said, stamping her foot with indignation.
</p>
<p>
"My! how hoighty-toighty we are! Well, if yer won't give a feller a kiss,
I must take it," and Dick put his arm round her waist, and drew her
towards him.
</p>
<p>
At that moment Donald, who had been watching his behaviour with increasing
disgust and anger, leaped up, caught him by the throat with his left hand,
and exclaimed: "Let her go, you scoundrel, or I'll thrash the life out of
you."
</p>
<p>
Without a word Dick whipped out his shooter from his hip pocket; Donald's
companions leaped from the table, concluding at once there was going to be
blood, while "Old Shorty" ducked behind the counter in terror.
</p>
<p>
Kitty stood rooted to the spot, expecting to see her defender fall at her
feet with a bullet through his brain or heart.
</p>
<p>
Donald, the moment that Dick pulled out the pistol, grasped the arm that
held it as with a vice with his right hand, and, letting go his hold, of
his throat, with his left he wrenched the weapon from him.
</p>
<p>
Then he dealt him a straight blow in the face that felled him like an ox.
</p>
<p>
Dick rose to his feet with murder in his eyes.
</p>
<p>
With a cry of rage he rushed upon Donald. The latter had learned to box as
well as shoot. He was quite calm, though very pale. He waited for the
attack, and then, judging his opportunity, let out his left with terrific
force. The blow struck Dick behind the ear, and he fell to the ground with
a heavy thud.
</p>
<p>
He rose to his feet, muttered something about <i>his</i> time coming, and
slunk out.
</p>
<p>
Donald's victory over "Wild Dick," who was regarded as a bully, was hailed
in the exclamations which head this chapter.
</p>
<p>
Donald never provoked a quarrel, but, once engaged, he generally came out
victorious.
</p>
<p>
His prowess soon became bruited abroad, and he had the goodwill of all the
wild fellows of that wild region.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER VIII. HARD TIMES AT HOME.
</h2>
<p>
Life is hard in the Megantic district. A very small portion of the land is
susceptible of cultivation. The crops are meagre, and when the family is
provided for, there is very little left to sell off the farm. Money is
scarce. There is very little to be made in lumber.
</p>
<p>
When Donald went away there was a debt against his farm. He sent from time
to time what he could spare to wipe it off. But the times were bad.
Donald's father got deeper into debt. The outlook was not encouraging.
</p>
<p>
"I wish Donald would come home," the old man frequently muttered. "I wish
he would," his mother would say, and then she would cry softly to herself.
</p>
<p>
Poverty is always unlovely.
</p>
<p>
Too often it is crime!
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER IX.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care."
</pre>
<p>
"DEAREST DONALD,—I received your kind letter. That you are doing
well, and saving money for the purpose you speak of, it is pleasant to
hear. That you still love me is what is dearest to my heart. I may confess
in this letter what I could scarcely ever say in your presence, that I
think of you always. All our old walks are eloquent of the calm and happy
past. When I sit beneath the tree where I first learned that you cared for
me, my thoughts go back, and I can almost hear the tones of your voice. I
feel lonely sometimes. Your letters are a great solace. If I feel a little
sad I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who is not indifferent
even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem mournful, and when
the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through the pines, I don't know
how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.
</p>
<p>
"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We are
going away to Springfield, in Massachusetts. A little property has been
left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not
affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.
</p>
<p>
"God bless you, dearest.
</p>
<p>
"Your own
</p>
<p>
"MINNIE."
</p>
<p>
Donald read this letter thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
"My father going to the bad, and Minnie going away," he muttered.
</p>
<p>
He rose from his seat, and walked the narrow room in which he lodged.
</p>
<p>
"I will go home," he said.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER X. "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME."
</h2>
<p>
Donald Morrison is back to the simple life of Marsden again. Five years
had changed him enormously. His figure had always promise of athletic
suppleness. It was now splendidly compact. He left the type of the
conventional farmer. He returned the picturesque embodiment of the far
West. Perhaps, in his long locks, wide sombrero, undressed leggings, and
prodigal display of shooting irons, there may have been a theatrical
suggestion of Buffalo Bill.
</p>
<p>
The village folk accepted him with intense admiration. Here was something
new to study. Had Donald not been to the great and wonderful Far West, so
much the more fascinating because nobody knew anything about it? Had he
not shot the buffalo roaming the plains? Had he not mingled in that wild
life which, without moral lamp-posts, allures all the more because of a
certain flavoring spice of deviltry? Every farmer's son in Marsden, Gould,
Stornaway, and Lake Megantic, envied Donald that easy swaggering air, that
frank, perhaps defiant outlook, which the girls secretly adored. Is it the
village maiden alone who confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilism? Let
the social life of every garrison city answer. The delicately nurtured
lady's heart throbs beneath lace and silk, and that of the village girl
beneath cotton, but the character of the emotion is the same.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, Donald, Donald, my dear son!"
</p>
<p>
Withered arms were round his neck, and loving lips pressed his cheek.
</p>
<p>
Donald's home-coming had been a surprise. He had sent no word to his
parents. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, when he entered
unannounced. For a moment she did not know him, but a mother's love is
seldom at fault. A second glance was enough. It passed over Donald the
bronzed and weather-beaten man, and reached to Donald the curly-headed
lad, whose sunny locks she had brushed softly when preparing him for
school.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, mother," said Donald, tenderly returning her greeting, "I am back
again. I intend to settle down. Father's letter showed me that things were
not going too well, and I thought I would come home and help to straighten
them out a bit. I have had my fill of wandering, and now I think I would
like to live quietly in the old place where I was born, among the friends
and the scenes which are endeared to me by past associations."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I wish you would, Donald," the old mother replied, with moist eyes.
"Your father wants you home, and I want you home. We're now getting old
and feeble. We won't be long here. Remain with us to the close."
</p>
<p>
"Well, Donald, my man, welcome back," a hearty voice cried.
</p>
<p>
Upon looking round Donald saw his father, who had been out in the fields,
and just came in as the mother was speaking. The two men cordially shook
hands.
</p>
<p>
"My, how changed you are," the father said. "I would hardly know you. From
the tone of your letters, you have had an adventurous life in the West."
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Donald, "at first the novelty attracted. I was free. There
was no standard of moral attainment constantly thrust in your face, and
that was an enormous relief to me. You know how I often rebelled against
the strictness of life here. But even license fatigues; the new becomes
the old; and where there is no standard there is but feeble achievement. I
became a cowboy because that phase of life offered at a moment when
employment was a necessity. I remained at it because I could make money.
But I never meant this should be permanent. The wild life became dull to
me, and I soon longed for the quiet scenes from which I had been so glad
to escape. I learned to shoot and ride, and picked up a few things which
may be useful to me here. And now, father, let us discuss your affairs."
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER XI. "THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE."
</h2>
<p>
It was Saturday night in the village of Lake Megantic. The work of the
week is done. There is a brief respite from labor which, severe and
unremitting, dulls the mind and chokes the fountains of geniality and wit.
The young men,—indeed, there was a sprinkling of grey hairs, too,—had
gathered in the one hotel the village boasts of. There was a group in the
little room off the bar, and another group in the bar-room itself. It was
well for the host that the palates of his guests had not been corrupted by
the "mixed drinks" of the cities. He steadily dispensed one article,—that
was whiskey. It was quite superfluous to ask your neighbor what he would
take. The whiskey was going round, and the lads were a little flushed. At
the head of the room off the bar a piper was skirling with great energy,
while in the centre of the room a strapping young fellow was keeping time
to the music.
</p>
<p>
The piper paused, and drew a long breath. The dancer resumed his seat.
</p>
<p>
"I say, boys," said one of the party, "have you seen Donald Morrison since
he came home?"
</p>
<p>
Oh, yes, they had all seen him.
</p>
<p>
"What do you think of him?" the first speaker asked.
</p>
<p>
"Well," said a second speaker, "I think he is greatly changed. He's too
free with his pistols. He seems to have taken to the habits of the West. I
don't think we want them in Megantic."
</p>
<p>
"I saw him riding down the road to-day," said a third speaker, "and he was
using the cowboy stirrups and saddle. Talking of his pistols, he's the
most surprising shot I ever saw. I saw him the other day in the village
snuffing a candle, and cutting a fine cord at twenty paces."
</p>
<p>
"He'd be an ugly customer in a row," remarked a fourth speaker.
</p>
<p>
"No doubt," said the first young fellow, "but Donald never was a
disorderly fellow, and I think his pistol shooting and defiant air are a
bit of harmless bravado."
</p>
<p>
The previous speaker appeared to be a bit of a pessimist. "I only hope,"
he said, significantly, as it seemed, "that nothing will come of this
carrying arms, and riding up and down the country like a page of Fenimore
Cooper."
</p>
<p>
"By the way," interposed the first speaker, "did you hear that Donald and
his father had a dispute about the money which Donald advanced when he was
away, and that legal proceedings are threatened?"
</p>
<p>
No, none of the party had heard about it, but the pessimist remarked: "I
hope there won't be any trouble. Donald, I think, is a man with decent
instincts, but passion could carry him to great lengths. Once aroused, he
might prove a dangerous enemy."
</p>
<p>
The young man said these words earnestly enough, no doubt. He had no idea
he was uttering a prophecy.
</p>
<p>
How surprised we are sometimes to find that our commonplaces have been
verified by fate, with all the added emphasis of tragedy!
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER XII. MODEST, SIMPLE, SWEET.
</h2>
<h3>
Minnie is in her new home in Springfield.
</h3>
<p>
Springfield is a village set at the base of a series of hills, which it is
an article of faith to call mountains. They are not on the map, but that
matters little. We ought to be thankful that the dullness of the
guide-book makers and topographists has still left us here and there
serene bits of nature.
</p>
<p>
Springfield had a church, and a school, and a post office, and a tavern.
It was a scattered sort of place, and a week of it would have proved the
death of a city lady, accustomed to life only as it glows with color, or
sparkles with the champagne of passion. Minnie had never seen a city. She
was content that her days should be spent close to the calm heart of
nature. She felt the parting with old friends at Lake Megantic keenly. She
murmured "farewell" to the woods in accents choked with tears. All the
associations of childhood, and the more vivid and precious associations of
her early womanhood, crowded upon her that last day. Donald occupied the
chief place in her thoughts. He was far away. Should they ever meet again?
Should their sweet companionships ever be renewed?
</p>
<p>
The cares of her new home won her back to content.
</p>
<p>
Minnie's mother was feeble, and required careful nursing. Her own early
life had been darkened by hardships. When a young girl she had often gone
supperless to bed. Her bare feet and legs were bitten by the cutting winds
of winter. Her people had belonged to the North of Ireland. She herself
was born in the south of Antrim. Her mother was early left a widow,
without means of support. She worked in the fields for fourpence a day,
from six to six, and out of this she had to pay a shilling a week for
rent, and buy food and clothing for herself and orphan child. Her employer
was a Christian, and deeply interested in the social and spiritual welfare
of the heathen! When the outdoor work failed in the winter, she wound
cotton upon the old-fashioned spinning-wheel, and Minnie's mother often
hung upon the revolving spool with a fearful interest. Mother and child
were often hungry. The finish of the cotton at a certain hour of the day
meant a small pittance wherewith bread could be bought. A minute after the
office hour, and to the pleading request that the goods be taken and the
wages given, a brutal "No" would be returned, and the door slammed in the
face of the applicant. This was frequently the experience of the poor
woman and her child.
</p>
<p>
At least death is merciful. It said to the widow—"Come, end the
struggle. Close your eyes, and I will put you to sleep."
</p>
<p>
Minnie's mother was adopted by a lady who subsequently took up her
residence in Scotland, and a modest ray of sunshine thence continued to
rest upon her life: but her early sufferings had left their mark.
</p>
<p>
Of her mother's life Minnie knew but little. What she perceived was that
she needed all her love and care, and these she offered in abundant
measure.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIII. A LETTER FROM DONALD.
</h2>
<p>
Minnie is in her little bedroom, and she is looking, with a shy surprise
mixed with just a little guilt (which is sometimes so delicious), at her
blushes in the glass. In her hand was a letter. That letter was from
Donald. It had been handed to her at the breakfast table, and she had
hastened to her room to have the luxury of secret perusal. With love there
are only two beings in the entire universe. You say love is selfish. You
are mistaken. Love loves secrecy. A blabbing tongue, the common look of
day, kills love. The monopoly that love claims is the law of its being. If
I transcribed Donald's letter you would say it was a very commonplace
production. But Minnie kissed it twice, and put it softly in her bosom.
The letter announced that he was home again, and that he would shortly pay
her a visit. It just hinted that things were not going on well at home;
but Minnie's sanguine temperament found no sinister suggestion in the
words.
</p>
<p>
The letter had made her happy. She put on her hat, and, taking the path at
the back of the house that joined that which led to the mountain, she was
soon climbing to the latter's summit.
</p>
<p>
It was a beautiful spring day. The sunlight seemed new, and young, and
very tender. The green of the trees was of that vivid hue which expresses
hope to the young, and sadness to the aged. To the former it means a
coming depth and maturity of joy; to the latter, the fresh, eager days of
the past—bright, indeed, but mournful in their brevity.
</p>
<p>
Minnie sat down upon a rustic seat, and gave herself up to one of those
delicious day-dreams which lure the spirit as the mirage lures the
traveller.
</p>
<p>
She began to sing softly to herself—
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"Thou'lt break my heart thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou 'minds me o' departed joys,
Departed—never to return."
</pre>
<p>
Why those lines were suggested, and why her voice should falter in
sadness, and why tears should spring to her eyes, she did not know. To
some spirits the calm beauty of nature, and the warm air that breathes in
balm and healing, express the deepest pathos. The contrast between the
passion and suffering of life, and the calm assurance of unruffled joy
which nature suggests, pierces the heart with an exquisite sadness.
</p>
<p>
Poor Minnie, she sang the lines of "Bonnie, Doon," all unconscious that
they would ever have any relation to her experience.
</p>
<p>
But Minnie would bear her grief, and say, "God is love."
</p>
<p>
She had never subscribed to a creed, and although Mill and Huxley were
strangers to her, her whole nature protested against any system of which
violence was one of the factors.
</p>
<p>
Minnie was simply good. When she encountered suffering, and found that it
was too great for human relief, she would whisper to her heart, "By and
by." What by and by meant explained all to Minnie.
</p>
<p>
We spend years upon the study of character, and the cardinal features
often escape us. A dog has but to glance once into a human face. He
comprehends goodness in a moment. The ownerless dogs of the village
analyzed Minnie's nature, and found it satisfactory. They beamed upon her
with looks of wistful love. She had them in the spring and summer for her
daily escort to the mountain.
</p>
<p>
That was a testimonial of fine ethical value.
</p>
<p>
"Why, what am I dreaming about?" Minnie exclaimed, after she had sat for
about an hour. "Why are my eyes wet? Why do I feel a sadness which I
cannot define? Am I not happy? Isn't Donald coming to see me? Will we not
be together again? Isn't the sun bright and warm, and our little home
cheerful and happy? Fancies, dreams, and forebodings, away with you. I
must run home and help mother to make that salad for dinner."
</p>
<p>
The world wants not so much learned, as simple, modest, reverent women, to
sweeten and redeem it!
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIV. THE BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE.
</h2>
<p>
We will not afflict the reader with all the complexities of a dispute
which for months exercised the Press, the people, and the Government of
Lower Canada; which led to a terrible tragedy, and the invasion of a quiet
country by an armed force which exercised powers of domiciliary visitation
and arrest resorted to only under proclamation of martial law; and which,
setting a price upon a man's head, resulted in an outlawry as romantic and
adventurous as that of Sir Walter Scott's Rob Roy.
</p>
<p>
Certain large features, necessary to the development of the story, will be
recapitulated.
</p>
<p>
Poverty has few alleviations. Where it exists at all it takes a malevolent
delight in making its aspect as hideous as possible. Donald's father had
got into difficulties. Donald had helped him more than once when he was in
the West, and when he came home he advanced him a considerable sum. A time
came when Donald wanted his money back. His father was unable to give it
to him. There was a dispute between them. Recourse was had to a
money-lender in Lake Megantic.
</p>
<p>
The latter advanced a certain sum of money upon a note. In the
transactions which occurred between Donald and the money-lender the former
alleged over-reaching.
</p>
<p>
An appeal was made to the law.
</p>
<p>
In the Province of Quebec the law moves slowly. Its feet are shod with the
heavy irons of circumlocution. It is very solemn, but its pomp is
antiquated. It undertakes to deal with your cause when you have long
outgrown the interest or the passion of the original source of contention.
Time has healed the wound. You are living at peace with your whilom enemy.
You have shaken him by the hand, and partaken of his hospitality.
</p>
<p>
Then the law intervenes, and revives passions whose fires were almost out.
Before Donald's case came on, he sold the farm to the money-lender.
</p>
<p>
Donald claimed that the latter, in the transaction of a mortgage prior to
the sale, and in the terms of the sale itself, had cheated him out of
$900.
</p>
<p>
The sale of the farm was made in a moment of angry impetuosity. Donald
regretted the act, and wanted the sale cancelled upon terms which would
settle his claim for the $900.
</p>
<p>
The money-lender re-sold the farm to a French family named Duquette.
</p>
<p>
Popular sympathy is not analytical. It grasps large features. It overlooks
minutiæ.
</p>
<p>
Donald had been wronged. He had been despoiled of his farm. His years of
toil in the West had gone for nothing, for the money he had earned had
been put into the land which was now occupied by a stranger. This was what
the people said. The young men were loud in their expressions of sympathy.
The older heads shook dubiously.
</p>
<p>
"There would be trouble."
</p>
<p>
"Donald had a determined look. Duquette made a mistake in taking the farm.
The cowboys in the North-West held life rather cheap."
</p>
<p>
So the old people said.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XV. A SHOT IN THE DARKNESS.
</h2>
<h3>
The Duquettes took possession of the farm.
</h3>
<p>
They were quiet, inoffensive people.
</p>
<p>
Donald had been seen moving about between Marsden and Lake Megantic
wearing an air of disquietude.
</p>
<p>
Something was impending. In a vague way the people felt that something
sinister was going to happen.
</p>
<p>
'Twas about midnight in the village of Marsden. Darkness enveloped it as a
mourning garment. Painful effort, and strife, and sorrow were all
forgotten in that deep sleep which, as the good Book says, is peculiarly
sweet to the laboring man.
</p>
<p>
The Duquettes had not yet retired to rest. Mrs. Duquette had been kept up
by an ailing child. She was sitting with her little one on her knee.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly there was a detonation and a crash of glass. A whizzing bullet
lodged in the face of the clock above Mrs. Duquette's head. Who fired the
shot? And what was the motive? Was it intended that the bullet should
kill, or only alarm?
</p>
<p>
Was it intended that the Duquettes should recognize the desirability of
vacating the farm?
</p>
<p>
Who fired the shot?
</p>
<p>
Nothing was said openly about it; but the old people shook their heads,
and hinted that cowboys, with pistols ostentatiously stuck in their belts,
were not the most desirable residents of a quiet village like Marsden.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVI. "BURNT A HOLE IN THE NIGHT."
</h2>
<p>
That shot in the darkness furnished a theme for endless gossip amongst the
villagers. There was not much work done the next day. When the exercise of
the faculties is limited to considerations associated with the rare
occurrence of a wedding or a death, intellectual activity is not great.
Abstract reasoning is unknown; but a new objective fact connected with the
environment is seized upon with great avidity. That shot was felt to be
ominous. Was it the prologue to the tragedy? There was to be something
more than that shot.
</p>
<p>
What was it?
</p>
<p>
Would anything else happen, and when would it happen?
</p>
<p>
The villagers were not kept long in suspense.
</p>
<p>
A few nights afterwards there was a lurid glare in the sky.
</p>
<p>
It was red, and sinister, and quivering.
</p>
<p>
What could it mean?
</p>
<p>
Was it a celestial portent which thus wrote itself upon the face of the
heavens?
</p>
<p>
The villagers assembled in alarm.
</p>
<p>
"Why, it's Duquette's place on fire!"
</p>
<p>
Yes, the homestead had been fired, and the conflagration made a red,
ragged hole in the blackness of the night!
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVII. SUSPICION FALLS UPON DONALD, AND A WARRANT IS ISSUED AGAINST
HIM.
</h2>
<h3>
This was the second act in the drama.
</h3>
<p>
The situations were strong and in bold relief. Would the interest deepen
in dramatic accrument?
</p>
<p>
Donald was generally suspected; but he had commenced to experience that
sympathy which was to withstand all attempts of the Government to shake it—attempts
which appealed alternately to fears and cupidity.
</p>
<p>
There was no proof against him, but even those who, if there had been
proof, would have condemned the act, would not put forth a hand to injure
him.
</p>
<p>
To understand the strength of the feeling of clannishness in this district
one must reside amongst the people.
</p>
<p>
Donald was suspected, as we have said, and a warrant was made out against
him on the charge of arson.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVIII. HE THOUGHT OF HIS WIFE AND FAMILY, AND HE RETURNED TO
SHERBROOKE.
</h2>
<h3>
"Good morning, Mr. A——."
</h3>
<p>
"Good morning, Mr. L——. A lovely morning."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, indeed."
</p>
<p>
"Are you going far?"
</p>
<p>
"I am going to Marsden. By the way, have you seen Donald Morrison lately?"
</p>
<p>
"I saw him yesterday. Why do you ask?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I may tell you that I have a warrant to arrest him on a charge of
arson."
</p>
<p>
Mr. L—— looked very thoughtful. "Do you know the kind of man
you have to deal with?"
</p>
<p>
"I have heard a good deal about him, especially since he returned from the
West. But why do you ask?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," said Mr. L——, "whether Donald set fire to the
Duquette's place or not, but I know that his real or fancied wrongs have
made him morose and irritable—aye, I will add, dangerous. You are a
married man, Mr. A——?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"You have a family?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Take my advice," said Mr. L—— impressively. "Don't try to
execute this warrant. Go straight back to Sherbrooke."
</p>
<p>
"But my duty," said Mr. A—— irresolutely.
</p>
<p>
"Where could you find Morrison, anyway? And if you did find him, and
attempted to execute the warrant, I tell you," said Mr. L————,
with great earnestness, "there would be bloodshed."
</p>
<p>
Mr. A————- thought a moment, held out his hand to
Mr. L————-, and turned his face towards
Sherbrooke.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAGEDY.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
MACBETH—"I have done the deed. This is a sorry sight."
</pre>
<p>
James Warren was a stout, thick-set man, about forty years of age. He was
an American by birth, but he had lived for many years in Compton County.
It was said that he had made a good deal of money by smuggling goods into
the States. He had the reputation of being a hard liver, and something of
a braggart.
</p>
<p>
Warren had been sworn in as a special constable to arrest Donald. Armed
with the warrant, he had lounged round the village of Megantic watching
his opportunity. He made loud boasts that he would take Morrison dead or
alive. He pulled out a pistol. This gave emphasis to the threat. We have
already said that Donald always went armed. Sometimes he carried a rifle:
more generally a couple of six-shooters.
</p>
<p>
Warren was in the hotel drinking. It was about noon on a beautiful day in
June.
</p>
<p>
One of the villagers rushed into the bar.
</p>
<p>
"Here's Morrison coming down the street," he said, in a tone of
excitement.
</p>
<p>
"All right," said Warren, "this is my chance."
</p>
<p>
"You daren't arrest him," a by-stander said.
</p>
<p>
"Daren't I, by ——," he replied. "Here, give me a drink of
whiskey."
</p>
<p>
He quaffed the glass, and went out to the front. Donald was coming towards
him. He saw Warren, and crossed to the other side to avoid him.
</p>
<p>
Warren went over and intercepted him.
</p>
<p>
"You've got to come with me," said Warren, pulling out the warrant.
</p>
<p>
"Let me pass," Donald replied in firm, commanding tones, "I want to have
nothing to do with you."
</p>
<p>
"But, by ——, I have something to do with you," Warren angrily
retorted. "You have got to come with me, dead or alive."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?" Donald demanded, while his right hand sought his hip
pocket.
</p>
<p>
"I mean what I say," Warren replied, fast losing control over himself.
Pulling out his revolver, he covered Donald, and commanded him to
surrender.
</p>
<p>
About a dozen people watched the scene in front of the hotel, chained to
the spot with a species of horrible fascination.
</p>
<p>
The moment that Donald saw Warren pull out his revolver, and cover him
with it, he clenched his teeth with a deadly determination, and, whipping
out his own weapon, and taking steady aim, he fired.
</p>
<p>
Warren, with his pistol at full cock in his hand, fell back—dead!
</p>
<p>
The bullet had entered the brain through the temple.
</p>
<p>
Donald bent over him, saw that he was dead, and, muttering between his
teeth, "It was either my life or his," walked down the street out of
sight.
</p>
<p>
Warren lay in a pool of blood, a ghastly spectacle. Some poor mother had
once held this man to her breast, and shed tears of joy or sorrow over
him!
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XX. AFTERWARDS.
</h2>
<p>
The inquest was over. Donald Morrison was found guilty of having slain
Warren. He walked abroad openly. No one attempted to interfere with him.
After the natural horror at the deed had subsided, sympathy went out to
Donald. He had slain a man. True. But it was in self-defence. Had not
Warren been seen pointing the pistol at him? Even admitting that Warren
had no intention to shoot, but only intended to intimidate Donald, how
could the latter know that? Donald had killed a man in the assertion of
the first law of nature—self-preservation.
</p>
<p>
The people deplored the act. But they did not feel justified in handing
Donald over to justice.
</p>
<p>
The news of the terrible tragedy spread. The papers got hold of the story,
and made the most of it.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXI. THE BLOW FALLS.
</h2>
<h3>
"Father, father, what is the matter? What ails you?"
</h3>
<p>
Mr. Minton had taken up the paper after breakfast. He had glanced
carelessly down the columns.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
The editorials were dull, and the news meagre. Suddenly, he came across
a large heading—"DREADFUL TRAGEDY!"
He read a few lines, and then uttered a cry of horror. He threw down the
paper, and looked at Minnie. It was a look of anguish.
</pre>
<p>
Minnie reached forward for the paper. Her eye caught the fatal head line.
By its suggestion of horror it provoked that hunger for details which, in
its acute stage, becomes pruriency.
</p>
<p>
This is what the eye, with a constantly augmenting expression of
fearfulness, conveyed to the brain:—
</p>
<p>
"DREADFUL TRAGEDY.—About mid-day yesterday one of the most fearful
tragedies ever enacted in this province, indeed in Canada, took place in
the village of Megantic. Our readers are familiar with the agrarian
troubles in which Donald Morrison has been figuring for some time past.
They have also been apprised that, upon the burning of Duquette's
homestead, suspicion at once fell upon Donald. A warrant, charging him
with arson, was sworn out against him, and a man named Warren undertook to
execute it. It is alleged that the latter, armed with the warrant and a
huge revolver, swaggered about Megantic for several days, boasting that he
would take Morrison dead or alive. Be that as it may, the two men met
yesterday outside the village hotel. The accounts of what followed are
most conflicting. One of our reporters interviewed several witnesses of
the scene, and the following statements, we believe, may be relied upon.
Warren approached Morrison, and, in a loud tone of voice, told him that he
had a warrant for him, and commanded him to surrender. The latter
attempted to get past, and said he wanted to have nothing to do with him.
With that Warren pulled out a pistol, and ordered Morrison to throw up his
hands. Now, whether Morrison fully believed that Warren meant to shoot
him, will never, of course, be known. That is the statement he made to our
reporter with every appearance of earnestness, subsequent to the
occurrence. At any rate, the moment that Warren's pistol appeared,
Morrison whipped out his revolver, and shot him through the head. Warren
fell backward, and died in a few minutes. The dreadful act has caused the
utmost excitement throughout the country, whose annals, as far as serious
crime is concerned, are stainless. A singular circumstance must be noted.
There is not a single person who regards Morrison in the light of a
murderer. The act is everywhere deplored, but Morrison's own statement,
backed by several witnesses, that he committed the deed in self-defence,
is as generally accepted, and the consequence is that every house is open
to him, no man's back is turned upon him, and his friends still hold out
to him the hand of fellowship. He is still at large, and likely to be so,
as the county is without police, and strangers coming here would have no
chance of arresting him. Indeed, Morrison, armed with a rifle and two
revolvers, walks about Megantic and Marsden in broad daylight—perfectly
safe from harm, as far as the people themselves are concerned. It is said
the Provincial Government are about to take some steps in the matter."
</p>
<p>
Minnie read this account through to the end. She seemed to grow stiff, and
her eyes dilated with a nameless horror. She did not faint. That is a
privilege reserved for the heroines of the Seaside Library. This is a very
modest narrative of fact, and we could not afford so dramatic a luxury as
that. Minnie was a hearty country girl, and oatmeal repudiates all
affinity with hysterics.
</p>
<p>
Minnie read the article, threw down the paper, and rushed to her room. She
flung herself beside her bed. First of all, she didn't believe the story.
It was a foul lie. "What! Donald Morrison kill a man! Donald, my lover,
whom I have known since childhood—whose generous instincts I have so
often admired! Donald Morrison to redden his hands with the blood of his
fellow! Impossible, impossible! Oh, Donald, Donald," she cried wildly,
"say it isn't true; say it isn't true!"
</p>
<p>
She knelt over the bed, too deeply stricken for tears. After that
passionate prayer for denial—a prayer which is constantly ascending
from humanity, and which, asking for an assurance that the storm shall not
ravish the rose of life, has in it perhaps at bottom something of
selfishness—she remained motionless. She was thinking it out. It <i>was</i>
true Donald <i>had</i> killed a man. The report could not lie so
circumstantially. The place, and the date, and the details were given. The
story was true, and Donald had taken a life. But then, had he committed
murder? A thousand times, no! Warren had threatened to kill Donald. Warren
<i>would</i> have killed him. Donald defended himself; and if, in
defending himself, he had taken a life, what then? Terrible—too
terrible for words; but life was as sweet to Donald as it was to Warren. A
moment later and he would have been the victim. He obeyed the fundamental
law of nature.
</p>
<p>
Thus Minnie tried to reason, but it brought no comfort to her. Her simple
dream of love and modest happiness was over. She knew that. The beautiful
vase of life was broken, and no art could mend it!
</p>
<p>
When thought was in some degree restored, she sat down and wrote the
following letter:—
</p>
<p>
"Oh, Donald, Donald, what have I read in the papers? Is it true? Is it
true?
</p>
<p>
"Tell me all. Even if the truth be the very worst, do not fear that I
shall reproach you. God forbid that I should sit in judgment upon you.
Look to God. He can pardon the deepest guilt. My feelings are not changed
toward you. I loved you when you were innocent, and I would not be worthy
the name of woman if I were not faithful even in despair. Hasty you may
have been, but I know that wickedness never had a lodgment in your heart.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
'Oh, what was love made for if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame."
</pre>
<p>
"Your broken hearted
</p>
<p>
"MINNIE." <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXII. WHAT WAS DONALD ABOUT.
</h2>
<p>
When Mrs. Morrison learnt the dreadful news that Donald had shot Warren,
the poor old woman was overwhelmed with despair. Donald himself broke the
news to her. After satisfying himself that Warren was dead, he turned on
his heel and went home to Marsden.
</p>
<p>
"Mother," he said, with terrible calmness, when he entered the door, "I
have killed Warren."
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Morrison looked at him vaguely. She did not comprehend.
</p>
<p>
"Warren wanted to arrest me this morning in Megantic, and because I
refused to go with him he pulled out a pistol, as I thought, to shoot me.
I fired at him. The shot killed him."
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Morrison uttered a shriek. "Oh, Donald, my son, my son," she
exclaimed, "what is this, what is this? Killed Warren! Oh, you must fly at
once, or they will be after you!"
</p>
<p>
"No, mother, I will not run. I will stay where I am. They can't arrest me.
I can easily avoid all who are sent for that purpose. My friends will keep
me informed of their doings. But, mother, whatever others say, I want you
to believe that I never thought of harming a hair of Warren's head when he
met me. I fired in self-defence. I deplore his death; but it was either he
or I."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I believe you, Donald, and your poor mother," breaking into a violent
fit of weeping, "your poor mother will never turn against you. But what
will be the end? The officers must take you some time."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what the end will be," he said gloomily. "If I thought I
would get a fair trial I might give myself up; but if I did so now they
would hang me, I believe. I will wait and see, and the woods, with every
inch of which I am familiar, will be my retreat, should the pursuit ever
be dangerous."
</p>
<p>
Donald's father took the news stoically. His nature was not emotional. The
relations between father and son were strained. Little was said on either
side.
</p>
<p>
Donald walked about as usual. He had repeated to his immediate friends
every circumstance of the tragedy. They fully believed him innocent of
murder. This exoneration was of great value to him. From mouth to mouth
the story spread that Donald fired in self-defence, and the latter found
that all the faces he met were friendly faces.
</p>
<p>
What he said to himself in his own room every night, he said to his
friends—"I regret the deed. I had no thought of touching Warren.
When I saw his pistol flash in front of me, I felt in a moment that my
life was at stake. I obeyed an instinct, which prompted me to get the
first shot to save myself. I could get back to the States, but I'll stay
right here. Let them take me if they can."
</p>
<p>
In vain his friends urged flight. He was inflexible on this point.
</p>
<p>
So, as we have stated, he walked abroad in perfect safety. He carried his
rifle and his two revolvers, and possibly, in some quarters, this rather
suggestive display may, in <i>some</i> degree, have accounted for the
civility with which he was everywhere greeted.
</p>
<p>
The county authorities had not moved against him. The Provincial
Government had not as yet intervened. A price was not yet set upon his
capture. He was free to go and come as he chose, and yet he moved amongst
those who had seen him take the life of a fellow creature.
</p>
<p>
Minnie's letter, addressed to his father's care, reached him. It moved him
deeply. Since the tragedy he had frequently tried to write to her, but
never found the courage.
</p>
<p>
He recognized that all hope of future union with Minnie was now
impossible. He had taken a life. At any moment the officers of the law
might be on his track. His arrest might lead him to the scaffold.
</p>
<p>
In his reply to Minnie, Donald described the tragic scene with which the
reader is familiar, deplored the occurrence, but, with great earnestness,
asked her to believe that he had acted only in self-defence. "I started
out," he said, in one portion of his letter, "to go to church last Sunday
evening. I had reached the door, when I thought—'Donald, you have
broken a law of God!' and I had not the courage to go in."
</p>
<p>
We quote this passage merely in confirmation of our statement that Donald
felt perfectly free to go abroad after the tragedy, and to participate in
the social life of the village.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIII. ACTION OF THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT.—FIVE OFFICERS
SENT TO MEGANTIC.
</h2>
<p>
To the common mind government is something vast, mysterious, and powerful.
It is associated with armies and navies, and an unlimited police force.
There are a glittering sword, a ponderous mace, and an argus eye, that
reaches to the remotest point of territory like a great big electric
search light, in it.
</p>
<p>
No man is a hero to his valet, and the nearer you get to the seat of
power, the less does government impose upon the imagination. Those who
read, with infinite respect, "that the Government has decided, after a
protracted meeting of the Cabinet, to levy a tax upon terrier dogs for
purposes of revenue," would be shocked to learn that government meant a
small table, a bottle of wine, a few cigars, and two men not a whit above
the mental or moral level of the ordinary citizen. Government imposes when
you meet it in respectful capitals in the public prints, but when you get
a glimpse of it in its shirt sleeves, <i>en famille</i>, or playing
harlequin upon the top of a barrel at the hustings, or tickling the yokels
with bits of cheap millinery and silk stockings, and reflect that you have
paid homage to <i>that</i>, you begin to doubt the saving efficacy of the
ballot box.
</p>
<p>
Now, the Government of Quebec is neither a naval nor a military power. It
doesn't want to fight, and if it did it hasn't got either the ships, or
the men, or the money. The Sergeant-at-Arms in the Legislative Assembly is
the only military person in its pay. It has not even a single policeman to
assert the majesty of the law.
</p>
<p>
The Government of Quebec is the Hon. Honoré Mercier.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Mercier is like the first Napoleon. He chooses <i>tools</i> to assist,
not strong individualities to oppose, him.
</p>
<p>
Party journalism in the Province of Quebec is peculiarly bitter and
mendacious. The Press generally had made the most of the shooting of
Warren. A month had elapsed, and no attempt had been made to arrest
Morrison, who, it was alleged, swaggered through the country armed to the
teeth, and threatening death to the man who should attempt to take him. It
was generally agreed that this was a scandal. But the opposition journals
made political capital out of the affair.
</p>
<p>
"What! was this the Mercier Government? Was this the sort of law and order
we were promised under his <i>régime</i>? Here was a criminal at large
defying the law. Was Mr. Mercier afraid to arrest him, lest he might
forfeit the Liberal votes of the county? It looked like it. Could Mr.
Mercier not impress, for love or money, a single man in the Province to
undertake the task of arresting Morrison? Or was Mr. Mercier so taken up
with posing in that Gregory costume that he had no time to devote to the
affairs of his country?"
</p>
<p>
Mr. Mercier's reply to the party Press was to send down five special
constables to Megantic.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIV. TELLS HOW THE CONSTABLES ENJOYED THEMSELVES.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
CAESAR—"Let me have men about me that are fat—
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights."
</pre>
<p>
The five constables that Mr. Mercier sent down to Megantic put up in the
village hotel.
</p>
<p>
Within an hour Donald had received the following note:—
</p>
<p>
"Dear Donald,—Action at last. Five men from Quebec after you. Keep
away from Marsden for a day or so. I don't think there is much to fear.
They would not know you, I believe, if they met you, and they are so
frightened by the stories they have heard about you, that I don't believe
they would dare to arrest you, even if they found you. However, as well be
on the safe side. Go into the woods a little bit"
</p>
<p>
The people soon knew that an attempt was to be made to arrest Donald. The
young men gathered in the hotel round the constables, and told
blood-curdling stories of his dare-devilism in the North-West. The
constables were fat, phlegmatic, and anything but heroic. What they had
been accustomed to was an unexciting and steady beat in the drowsy old
city of Quebec, and small but unfailingly regular drinks of whiskey <i>blanc</i>.
This duty was new. Worst of all, it was perilous. This Morrison—he
might shoot at sight. True, they were armed with rifles and revolvers; but
they had heard that he was a dead shot. Perhaps he might shoot first. That
would, to say the least, be awkward, perhaps dangerous, perhaps even
fatal. No, they had not much stomach for the work, and the people,
perceiving this, encouraged their fears. In a very short time Donald
became a combination of Italian brigand, Dick Turpin, and Wild West
Cowboy, as these latter are depicted in the dime stories.
</p>
<p>
Whenever, therefore, the officers took their walks abroad, they stepped
very gingerly as they approached the village of Marsden. It never occurred
to them to enter Donald's home. They might have found him half-a-dozen
times a day. They never once crossed the threshold of the woods.
</p>
<p>
Did not this terrible character know every tangled path, and might he not
open fire upon them without being seen?
</p>
<p>
The country roads are really white lines through the green of the woods.
</p>
<p>
One morning the constables left the hotel, primed with a little whiskey.
They took the road to Marsden. The woods skirted the narrow way on either
side. The summer was now well advanced, and the foliage was so thick as to
form an impenetrable lacery.
</p>
<p>
"We have been here a month now," said the officer in charge, in French,
"and we have accomplished nothing. I shall ask to be relieved at once. The
people will not help us. How could we ever find a man in these woods? He
might be here this moment," pointing to the trees at his right, "yet what
chance would we have of taking him?"
</p>
<p>
With one accord, the four subordinates answered "None."
</p>
<p>
"Suppose he were here," and the officer halted on his step, "how—What
is that? Did you hear anything?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said one of the constables timorously, "I heard a noise in the
brushwood."
</p>
<p>
"Suppose it were Morrison?"
</p>
<p>
And they looked at each other apprehensively.
</p>
<p>
"We will return," said the officer. "It is probably a bear. If I thought
it were Morrison, I would enter the wood," he said valorously. When they
were gone, a brown face peeped out. It was Donald. "They're scared," he
said to himself, laughing. "Not much danger from <i>them</i>. I don't
believe they would know me. I'll test it."
</p>
<p>
He laid down his rifle at the foot of a tree, looked to his pistols, and
walked rapidly in the direction the constables had taken. Overtaking them,
he pushed his way through the brushwood, in advance of them, and then, at
a bend in the road which hid him from view, he leaped out upon the road,
turned, and met the party. He walked straight up to them, looked them in
the eye, and passed on. They did not know him; or, if, as was alleged
against them afterwards, they knew him, they were afraid to arrest him.
The statement that Donald carried his audacity so far as to enter the
hotel, and drink with them, he himself laughingly denied to his friends.
</p>
<p>
The opposition papers jeered at the failure of the expedition. Ridicule is
the most powerful of weapons. Man is not half so humorous as the dog or
the elephant. With the latter it is an instinct. With the former it is an
acquirement. Still, the perception of humor is fairly general. Don't argue
with your opponent, Kill him with ridicule. Laughter is deadly. When the
people laugh at a Government it can put its spare collar and shirt in its
red handkerchief, and retire to the privacy of its family. Mr. Mercier is
sensitive to ridicule.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Mercier withdrew that expedition, and offered $3,000 reward for the
capture of Morrison!
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXV. PROOF AGAINST BRIBES!
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"A man's a man for a' that."
</pre>
<p>
It was now that Donald was to prove that integrity which for ages has been
so noble an attribute of the Highlander.
</p>
<p>
To many of the villagers $3,000 would have been a fortune. But if Donald
spent more of his time in the woods now than formerly, it was not that he
doubted the honor of the poorest peasant in the county. He well knew that
there was not a man or woman who would have accepted the reward if it were
to save them from starvation. He had no fear on that score. He became more
reserved in his movements, because his friends informed him that since the
offer of the reward, several suspicious-looking individuals from Montreal,
pretending to be commercial travellers, had been seen loitering in the
village. He therefore drew farther into the woods, and avoided his
father's house, either going to the houses of his friends for food, or
having it brought to him. If danger seemed pressing, he passed the night
in the woods, his rifle close to his side; but ordinarily, during this
time he slept at the homes of his friends. The arrival of every stranger
was known to him. Faithful friends noted down their description, and these
notes either reached him at a given rendezvous in the woods, or at the
houses where he passed the night.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXVI. THE REWARD FAILS.
</h2>
<p>
Time passed on. Donald was still at large. The reward had failed. Private
detectives from Montreal, who had remained in the district for weeks,
returned in disgust, confessing that Morrison's capture was impossible so
long as he had friends to inform him of every movement, and the woods to
retreat to.
</p>
<p>
At the police headquarters in Montreal various schemes were discussed.
Chief Hughes was of opinion that thirty resolute men, skilfully directed,
could accomplish the capture.
</p>
<p>
It was now the fall, and if action were not speedily taken, the winter
woods, filled with snow, would soon mock all effort of authority.
</p>
<p>
The press kept up the public interest in the case. Morrison had been seen
drinking at the hotel in Lake Megantic. He had attended a dance in
Marsden. He had driven publicly with the Mayor of Gould, with his rifle
slung from his shoulder. He went to church every Sunday, and he had taken
the sacrament. All this according to the press. Did the Mercier
Government, then, confess that it had abdicated its functions? Was this
Scotland in the Seventeenth Century, and this Morrison a romantic Rob Roy,
with a poetic halo round his picturesque head, or was it America in the
Nineteenth, with the lightning express, the phonograph, and Pinkerton's
bureau, and this criminal one of a vulgar type in whose crime sentiment
had no place?
</p>
<p>
Did the Government intend to allow this man to defy the law? If it did,
was this not putting a premium upon crime? If it did not, what steps did
it intend to take to secure his arrest? Thus far the newspapers.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXVII
</h2>
<h3>
THE GOVERNMENT TAKES OFF ITS COAT.
</h3>
<p>
The winter had passed. The first expedition had failed. The reward had
failed, for the people, sincerely regretting the tragedy, and anxious that
Donald should give himself up, scorned to betray the man who had trusted
in their honor.
</p>
<p>
Donald had spent the winter in comparative security. Anxiety had made him
thin, but he was as firmly fixed as ever in his determination to hold out.
He knew that as long as his friends remained faithful to him he could
never be taken. His mind did not seem to travel beyond that. "He would
never be taken." He was urged in vain to escape to the States. He was
urged in vain to give himself up. To the promise that his friends would
see that he received a fair trial, he would answer bitterly: "Promises are
easy now because they have not to be kept. How would it be when, behind
iron bars, and hope cut off, they <i>could</i> not be kept?"
</p>
<p>
Mr. Mercier felt that if the Government was not to suffer serious loss of
<i>prestige</i>, it must adopt heroic measures.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Mercier obtained from the city of Montreal the loan of fifteen picked
men. He placed these in the immediate charge of High Constable
Bissonnette. Major Dugas, a police magistrate, a skilled lawyer, and a
gallant officer, who, in 1885, had promptly responded to the call of duty
in the North-West, he placed in supreme command of this expedition, to
which he said dramatically, "Arrest Morrison!"
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTED OUTLAW.
</h2>
<h3>
The expedition arrived in Stornaway upon a raw morning in April.
</h3>
<p>
Donald knew all that could be learned within an hour.
</p>
<p>
"I must be careful now," he said. "Well, if they can follow me through the
woods on snowshoes, they're welcome to begin the pursuit."
</p>
<p>
Major Dugas' capacity was largely magisterial. He had the supreme
direction of the men, indeed, but the carrying out of the movements was to
be entrusted to the High Constable. The men had been carefully chosen.
They were armed with rifles and revolvers, and their orders were to shoot
Morrison, if, when accosted, he should refuse to surrender. Major Dugas'
plan was eminently politic. He first wanted to conciliate the people, and
then induce them to bring such pressure upon Donald as would induce him to
surrender upon being promised a fair trial. "This," said the Major to the
leading men of the place, with whom he placed himself in communication the
first day of his arrival, "is the wisest way to end the affair. The
Government is in earnest. Morrison must be arrested. No matter how long it
takes, this must be accomplished. Let the people come to the assistance of
the law, let them refuse to harbor Morrison, and the thing is done. But
should they fail to do this, then, however disagreeable it may be to me, I
must arrest all suspected of helping him in any way."
</p>
<p>
At first the people were sullen. They resented the incursion of an armed
force. Among the party was Sergeant Clarke, who brought his bagpipes with
him. There may be some people who have a prejudice against the bagpipes.
This proceeds from defective musical education. Sergeant Clarke's bagpipes
proved a potent factor in securing the personal goodwill of the people. He
played "Auld Scottish airs," and many of the old men, mellowed with
whiskey, wept in the bar-room of the little hotel at Stornaway. The
courtesy of Major Dugas, and the civil bearing of the men, told upon the
people, but nevertheless they did not abate one jot of what they called
their loyalty to Donald.
</p>
<p>
The latter's best friends now saw there could only be one ending. Donald
might not be taken alive. But he would be taken, alive or dead. That was
clear. The Government could not now retreat. The expedition must be
carried to a successful issue. Whatever hope there was for Donald if
brought to trial now, there would be none if he shed more blood. But
Donald was past reasoning with. These considerations, urged again and
again, fell upon dull ears. "I am determined," he said, "to fight it out."
He said this with firmly compressed lips. It was useless to persuade.
</p>
<p>
The expedition was divided into three parties. To cordon the woods would
have required an army. The points covered were Stornaway (Major Dugas'
headquarters), Gould and Marsden. Photographs of the outlaw were obtained
and distributed among the men. The roads were mud, and the woods filled
with soft snow. Infinite difficulty was experienced at every turn. The men
were not prepared for roughing it. They required long boots and snowshoes.
They had neither. Detective Carpenter, indeed, essayed the "sifters," but
he could make little progress, and he did not see the man whose name was
upon every lip, and who had just declared to the enterprising reporter who
had penetrated to his fastness, "that he would never be taken alive." The
several parties contented themselves with scouring the roads, watching the
railroad, and searching the houses of sympathizers. This continued for a
week, night and day. There was no result. The men suffered great
privations. But the duty was new, the adventure was exciting, and the
element of peril lent spice to it. And then, was there not the
consideration of $3,000? So, at Gould, and Stornaway the men made merry in
the few hours' rest allotted to them.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIX. DONALD IN THE WOODS OF MEGANTIC.
</h2>
<p>
This romantic region has been proudly termed the Switzerland of Canada.
Its majestic hills—so grandly rugged—its placid lakes, and its
dense and undulating forests lend an indescribable enchantment to the
companion and lover of nature, who for the first time beholds their
supreme beauty. The tree-topped hills in their altitude are at times lost
in the clouds. The lumberman has not yet ventured to their summits. He
contents himself with a house in a more convenient and safer spot. The
monotony of the prevailing quietness around these spots is only broken by
the tiny little stream as it meanders on its course to the bottom, where
it refreshes the weary traveller who may perchance pass that way.
Tableland there is none except little patches of less than an acre. The
environments of this region are peculiarly suited to the nature and tastes
of the settlers, who will tell you that they would not change them for all
the gold you could offer. The means of access to the villages, away from
the railway, are extremely poor. The roads—if they can be so called—offer
little inducement to the tourist. The woods adapt themselves to the
security of the fugitive at all times and during all seasons. In summer
the verdant branches darken the surroundings, while in the winter months
the drooping boughs, appealing in their solitude to nature, are sufficient
in their loneliness to convince one that to penetrate into their midst is
by no means a safe venture.
</p>
<p>
Yet it was here that Donald spent his days and nights at this period. Did
Donald hesitate whether his bed was to be on feathers or branches? No. His
friends were always his first consideration, and did he for a moment think
that by spending a night at a friend's cabin he would endanger their
hospitality, he would quietly retire to the woods. His bed consisted of a
few balsam branches spread rudely on the ground, with the overhanging
boughs pulled down and by some means or other transformed into a bower.
This as a means of protection. When the snow covered the ground to the
depth of several feet, Donald did not change his couch, but he made the
addition of a blanket, which, next to his firearms, he considered his
greatest necessity. He slept well, excepting when he was awakened by the
roar of a bear or some other wild animal. Then he simply mounted a tree,
and with revolver cocked, awaited his would-be intruder. His life in the
woods—so full of exciting events—was pleasant and safe. He
never for a moment believed that he could be caught were he to remain
hidden among the towering pines. Often—strong man as he was—would
he allow his feelings to overcome him when thinking of the possibilities
which he believed life might have had in store for him. The constant
mental strain under which he found himself seemed to affect but lightly
his keen sense of vivacity. Wearily did he pass some of his time amidst
the verdancy of the woods. The sun often rose and set unheeded by the
fugitive. When darkness set in he would furtively steal out to a friend's
hut, where he would participate in the frugal supper, and afterwards
engage in the family worship, which is never forgotten by the Highlanders.
</p>
<p>
He was always welcome wherever he went. He had no fear of being betrayed.
He knew his friends, and trusted them. Were he invited to share the couch
of his host, he would first ascertain whether all was safe, and then
stealthily enter.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXX. SECOND WEEK OF THE SEARCH—MAJOR DUGAS BECOMES SEVERE.
</h2>
<p>
A week was gone. Donald had not been caught. Major Dugas' policy of
conciliation had won personal regard. It had not caused the slightest
wavering among Donald's friends. The very men to whom the Major talked
every day knew his hiding-place, and could have placed their hands upon
him at an hour's notice. They made no sign. Every fresh measure of the
authorities was known to Donald, and during the first week—devoted,
as we have said, to a rigorous search of the farmhouses likely to be
visited by the fugitive—the police repeatedly reached his
hiding-place only to find that the bird had just taken wing!
</p>
<p>
Major Dugas was in his room at the Stornaway hotel. A severe look was in his
eye. He had tried conciliation. That had failed. It was idle to expect any
assistance from the people. The better sort—perhaps all of them—would
have been glad if the fugitive had surrendered, but they were not going to
help the authorities to induce him to do so. Very well. Then they, must be
punished for conniving at his outlawry.
</p>
<p>
High Constable Bissonnette entered for orders.
</p>
<p>
"I have determined," said the Major, "to arrest all who may be suspected
of harboring Morrison. This measure will probably bring the people to
their senses. But for their help he must surrender. When that is removed,
I am hopeful that we can take him without bloodshed. I will issue the
necessary warrants, and I will hand them over to you for execution. The
measure is a severe one, but the circumstances justify it."
</p>
<p>
The High Constable looked ruefully at his clothing, torn and covered with
mud. M. Bissonnette had ample energy. He entered upon the hunt with a
light heart. He had not spared himself, and had even ventured into the
wood without either long boots or snow-shoes. He was fatigued and
dilapidated, but he had not caught Donald.
</p>
<p>
"All right, your honor," said the High Constable, when the Major has
signed a batch of warrants, "I will have these attended to at once."
</p>
<p>
The High Constable was as good as his word.
</p>
<p>
The prominent friends of Donald were arrested and conveyed to Sherbrooke
Jail, bail being refused.
</p>
<p>
Major Dugas had committed an error. This measure, undertaken with the
proper motive of putting an end to the struggle by depriving the outlaw of
all chance of help, was impolitic. It accomplished nothing. The men were
arrested, but the women remained. The shelters still remained for the
fugitive. A bitter feeling now grew in the common breast against the
police—a feeling which the women, whose sympathies were with the
outlaw, and who resented the arrest of their husbands, fathers, and
brothers, did their utmost to encourage. The police found it hopeless to
get a scrap of information. The common people even refused to fraternize
with them in the evenings when they were gathered round the bar-room of
the village hotel.
</p>
<p>
During this second week the police made a great effort to locate the
fugitive. There were constant rumors regarding his whereabouts. He had
been seen at Gould. He had slept last night at his Father's house. He had
been seen on the edge of the wood. He had been seen to board a train bound
for Montreal. The Scotch delight in grim humor. These rumors reached the
police at their meals, and there was a scramble for firearms and a rush
for the wagons. They reached them at midnight, while they were dreaming of
terrific encounters with murderous outlaws in the heart of the forest, and
there was a wild rush into the darkness. A few of Donald's nearest
friends, who had escaped arrest, and started the rumors to favor the
movements of the outlaw, laughed sardonically at the labors they imposed
upon the police.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXI. "MANY WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE."
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met and never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."
</pre>
<p>
Ideal love does not ask conventional recognition. Love is not comfort, nor
house, nor lands, nor the tame delights of use and wont. Love is
sacrifice. Always ask love to pour out its gifts upon the altar of
sacrifice. This is to make love divine. But fill the cup of love with
comfort, and certainty, and calm days of ease, and you make it poor and
cheap. The zest of love is uncertainty. When love has to breast the
Hellespont it feels its most impassioned thrill. Let there be distance,
and danger, and separation and tears in love. Let there be dull certainty,
and custom stales its dearest delights.
</p>
<p>
Love is worthiest when it asks no requital. Minnie knew that all was over.
She received short notes from Donald from time to time, and the newspapers
kept her informed of the progress of events. She clearly perceived that if
Donald did not give himself up, one of the two things must happen—he
would either be killed himself by the police, or he would kill one or more
of his pursuers, with the certainty of being ultimately caught, and
probably hung. In her letters she implored him to give himself up, and not
further incense the Government, which was not disposed to be implacable.
Finding all her entreaties unavailing, she determined to visit him. This
was a bold resolution. It was carried out without hesitation. A more
sophisticated nature would have asked—"Will this seem modest?"
Modesty itself never asks such a question. Modesty is not conscious. There
is no blush on its cheek. Minnie believed that if she could see Donald,
she could persuade him to give himself up.
</p>
<p>
We won't tell you what Minnie wore, nor how she got to Marsden, nor what
fears she endured, lest the police, suspecting her as a stranger, should
follow her, and discover Donald's whereabouts.
</p>
<p>
Minnie reached Marsden in safety. It was in the afternoon.
</p>
<p>
She had written a brief note to Donald, telling him that she was coming.
</p>
<p>
The meeting took place in his father's house, the old people keeping
guard, so as to be able to warn the fugitive should any stranger approach
the house.
</p>
<p>
"Donald!"
</p>
<p>
"Minnie!"
</p>
<p>
Then they shook hands.
</p>
<p>
A mutual instinct caused them to shrink from endearments. Donald was
brown, thin, and weary-looking. His pistols were in his pockets, and his
rifle slung by his side. He had just come in from the woods.
</p>
<p>
Minnie looked at him, and the calmness which she thought she had schooled
herself to maintain deserted her. She burst into tears.
</p>
<p>
"Oh! Donald, Donald," she cried, "why will you not end this? If you ever
loved me, I beg of you to give yourself up, and stand your trial. Your
friends will see that you get fair play. I never believed you guilty of
murder. From what I can hear outside, nobody believes such a thing. That
you should have taken a life is dreadful—dreadful! but that you took
it in self-defence I fully believe. For God's sake, Donald, let the
struggle end. You will be killed; or, carried away by passion, you may
take another life, and then think of your terrible position. Can I move
you? Once I could. I love you in this terrible hour as dearly as ever, and
I would to God I could spare you what you must now suffer. But let me try
to save you from yourself. Listen to reason. Give yourself up to Major
Dugas. Your friends will procure the best legal advice, and who knows but
that you may still have a future before you. Let me urge you," and she
went up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm, while the tears streamed
down her cheeks.
</p>
<p>
Donald took her hand, and kissed it. He was greatly moved. "I can't,
Minnie," he said. "I can't do it. I would never get a fair trial. I feel
it. No, once arrested, they would either keep me in jail for ever, or hang
me. I have baffled them now for nearly a year, and I can baffle them
still. They must give up at last."
</p>
<p>
"But have you not heard," Minnie said, "that they are bringing on fifteen
more men from Quebec?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes," said Donald, smiling sadly it seemed, "I am kept well informed,
though they have arrested most of my friends. Let them bring on a hundred
men. They can't take me without I'm betrayed."
</p>
<p>
"And I saw in the papers," said Minnie, with a look of horror, "that if
these failed, they would employ bloodhounds against you."
</p>
<p>
Donald flushed. "I can't believe they would dare to do such a thing," he
said. "Public opinion would not stand it. No, I'm not afraid of that."
</p>
<p>
"Then, must my visit be in vain, Donald?" Minnie pleaded.
</p>
<p>
"I may be acting unwisely, Minnie," Donald responded, "but I can't agree
to give myself up. I feel that I must fight it out as I am doing. What the
end will be God only knows. But I want you to forget me, Minnie. Forget
me, and learn, by and by, to be happy in other companionships. You are
young, and life is before you. I never thought we would end like this. But
it must be. I can't recall what has happened. I am an outlaw. Perhaps the
scaffold awaits me. Your love would have blessed my life. I suppose fate
would not have it so."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
Donald took Minnie's hand and wrung it hard. He bent down and kissed her
forehead. "God bless you," he said—"farewell."
</p>
<p>
Then he rushed out of the house, and disappeared from view in the woods.
</p>
<p>
It was a party of five policemen, armed with rifles.
</p>
<p>
They were too late!
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXII. MAJOR DUGAS MEETS THE OUTLAW FACE TO FACE—A UNIQUE
INTERVIEW.
</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"You are alone, Major Dugas," Donald said suspiciously, keeping his hands
upon his pistols.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"The Major speaks reasonably, Donald," Morrison's friends said, "for God's
sake, take his advice."
</p>
<p>
"Can the Major give me the $900 of which I have been defrauded, to help me
to conduct my defence?" Donald asked.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"I will take your advice, Major. I give you my word," Donald replied.
</p>
<p>
"Well, good-bye."
</p>
<p>
"Good-bye, sir."
</p>
<p>
Thus ended the memorable interview.
</p>
<p>
Major Dugas drove back to Stornaway in disgust. He ordered the resumption
of the search, and upon the following morning left for Montreal.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE EXPEDITION IS BROKEN UP.
</h2>
<p>
Donald's friends were greatly disappointed. They fully expected that he
would surrender himself to Major Dugas.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
There was a tacit confession of failure.
</p>
<p>
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."
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXIV. CARPENTER ON THE SCENT—A NARROW ESCAPE.
</h2>
<p>
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 <i>must</i>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
A figure parted the young branches, came out into the open, ran stealthily
along the road, reached a small cottage, and disappeared within it.
</p>
<p>
Donald had tempted fate at a moment when fate, in the form of two eager
officers of the law, was closing him in.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"Is it worth while to search it?" McMahon asked his companion doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't think they're about so late," Donald replied carelessly, feeling
nevertheless for his pistols in his pockets.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
Donald sprang from his seat and did as he was directed. He was not a
moment too soon.
</p>
<p>
The police knocked smartly at the door.
</p>
<p>
The woman opened it.
</p>
<p>
"Have you got Morrison here?" McMahon asked.
</p>
<p>
"Look and see," the woman replied.
</p>
<p>
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!
</p>
<p>
"There's no use in stopping here," Leroyer said.
</p>
<p>
"No," replied McMahon, "we may as well go." As he spoke he carelessly ran
the butt end of his rifle under the bed!
</p>
<p>
Donald grew to the wall, and held his breath!
</p>
<p>
The rifle conveyed no sense of contact. It was thrust in without conscious
motive.
</p>
<p>
The police took their departure.
</p>
<p>
"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.
</p>
<p>
The friendly creature who sheltered him trembled like an aspen.
</p>
<p>
She had expected discovery, arrest, perhaps even bloodshed. She felt all a
woman's exaggerated horror of police, and law, and violence.
</p>
<p>
"Forgive me," Donald said, "for coming near the house. I'll not trouble
you again."
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXV. ANOTHER TRUCE ASKED FOR.
</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the outlaw realized at last how severely he had tried his friends'
patience.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
Detective Carpenter was seen, and the situation explained to him.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXVI. SHOTS IN THE DARKNESS—DONALD IS CAPTURED.
</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
In the gathering darkness two men passed them, knocked at the cottage door
and entered.
</p>
<p>
"Did you see who they were?" McMahon asked.
</p>
<p>
"No," said his companion. "But see! they have lit the lamp; I'll creep
forward and look through."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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?"
</p>
<p>
"We must call upon him to surrender, and if he refuses we must fire so as
to lame, but not to hurt him."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"Have no fear, mother, on that score. I hope I am acting for the best in
giving myself up."
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure you are, Donald. Here's your bottle of milk and your blanket."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what may happen before we meet again, mother. Good-bye," and
he bent down and kissed her withered face.
</p>
<p>
He opened the door, and went out into the darkness. "Throw up your hands,"
a ringing voice exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"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.
</p>
<p>
McMahon and the scout leaped from their concealment, followed hard upon
the fugitive, and fired repeatedly at him from their revolvers.
</p>
<p>
Could he escape?
</p>
<p>
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?
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
What was that? A cry of pain.
</p>
<p>
The pursuers came up, and saw a figure totter and fall at their feet.
</p>
<p>
"You have caught me at last," Donald said; "but had the truce been kept,
you never could have taken me."
</p>
<p>
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."
</p>
<p>
In the jail Donald said—"I was taken by treachery."
</p>
<p>
But the outlaw had been secured!
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CONCLUSION.
</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"A tear for pity,
And a hand open as day for melting charity."
</pre>
<p>
THE END. <br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
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