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.

"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?"

With one accord, the four subordinates answered "None."

"Suppose he were here," and the officer halted on his step, how--What is
that? Did you hear anything?"

"Yes," said one of the constables timorously, "I heard a noise in the
brushwood."

"Suppose it were Morrison?"

And they looked at each other apprehensively.

"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 _them_. I don't believe
they would know me. I'll test it."

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