The scout crept towards the window on his hands and knees. He was as lithe and stealthy as a panther. He raised his head and looked in. "My God, it's Morrison," he said to himself, as he crept back to his companion.
"It's Morrison," he said in an eager whisper. "I saw him sitting on a chair, talking to his mother. We have him when he comes out. How'll we take him?"
"We must call upon him to surrender, and if he refuses we must fire so as to lame, but not to hurt him."
At the moment that the glowing eyes of the scout looked in through the window, Donald was sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor talking to his mother, who was filling a bottle of milk for him.
"I'm to meet M—— in the morning in the woods, and then I'm going to surrender. The police by this time know my intention."
"You have acted wisely, Donald," his mother said. "We will all see that you get a fair trial. My poor hunted boy, what have you suffered during the past twelve months. Anything would be better than this. You are liable to be caught at any moment—perhaps shot."
"Have no fear, mother, on that score. I hope I am acting for the best in giving myself up."
"I'm sure you are, Donald. Here's your bottle of milk and your blanket."
"I don't know what may happen before we meet again, mother. Good-bye," and he bent down and kissed her withered face.
He opened the door, and went out into the darkness. "Throw up your hands," a ringing voice exclaimed.