It was about eight o'clock on Sunday evening. McMahon and Leroyer had
watched all through Saturday night and all through Sunday close to the
house, hidden from view in the bush. They were wetted through with the
snow; they were cold and hungry.

In the gathering darkness two men passed them, knocked at the cottage
door and entered.

"Did you see who they were?" McMahon asked.

"No," said his companion. "But see! they have lit the lamp; I'll creep
forward and look through."

The scout crept towards the window on his hands and knees. He was as
lithe and stealthy as a panther. He raised his head and looked in.
"My God, it's Morrison," he said to himself, as he crept back to his
companion.

"It's Morrison," he said in an eager whisper. "I saw him sitting on a
chair, talking to his mother. We have him when he comes out. How'll we
take him?"

"We must call upon him to surrender, and if he refuses we must fire so
as to lame, but not to hurt him."

At the moment that the glowing eyes of the scout looked in through the
window, Donald was sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor talking
to his mother, who was filling a bottle of milk for him.

"I'm to meet M---- in the morning in the woods, and then I'm going to