surrender. The police by this time know my intention."

"You have acted wisely, Donald," his mother said. "We will all see that
you get a fair trial. My poor hunted boy, what have you suffered during
the past twelve months. Anything would be better than this. You are
liable to be caught at any moment--perhaps shot."

"Have no fear, mother, on that score. I hope I am acting for the best in
giving myself up."

"I'm sure you are, Donald. Here's your bottle of milk and your blanket."

"I don't know what may happen before we meet again, mother. Good-bye,"
and he bent down and kissed her withered face.

He opened the door, and went out into the darkness. "Throw up your
hands," a ringing voice exclaimed.

"My God, I'm betrayed at last," Donald muttered, as he leaped the fence
close to the house, and made a straight line for the woods.

McMahon and the scout leaped from their concealment, followed hard upon
the fugitive, and fired repeatedly at him from their revolvers.

Could he escape?

He had fronted worse perils than this. Would fortune still smile upon
him, or, deserting him in the moment of supreme need, leave him to
destiny? The darkness favored him. The dense woods were near. Would he
be able to reach them in safety?