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.
"Is it worth while to search it?" McMahon asked his companion
doubtfully.
"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."
"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?"
"I don't think they're about so late," Donald replied carelessly,
feeling nevertheless for his pistols in his pockets.
"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."
Donald sprang from his seat and did as he was directed.
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