Capitola turned very pale, but not with fear, though Black Donald

thought she did, and roared with laughter.

"Have you done your supper?" she asked, with a sort of awful calmness.

"Yes my duck," replied the outlaw, pouring the last of the egg-nog into

his goblet, drinking it at a draught and chuckling as he set down the

glass.

Capitola then lifted the stand with the refreshments to remove it to

its usual place.

"What are you going to do, my dear?" asked Black Donald.

"Clear away the things and set the room in order," said Capitola, in

the same awfully calm tone.

"A nice little housewife you'll make, my duck!" said Black Donald.

Capitola set the stand in its corner and then removed her own armchair

to its place before the dressing bureau.

Nothing now remained upon the rug except Black Donald seated in the

armchair!

Capitola paused; her blood seemed freezing in her veins; her heart beat

thickly; her throat was choked; her head full nearly to bursting, and

her eyes were veiled by a blinding film.

"Come--come--my duck--make haste; it is late; haven't you done setting

the room in order yet?" said Black Donald, impatiently.

"In one moment," said Capitola, coming behind his chair and leaning

upon the back of it.

"Donald," she said, with dreadful calmness, "I will not now call you

Black Donald! I will call you as your poor mother did, when your young

soul was as white as your skin, before she ever dreamed her boy would

grow black with crime! I will call you simply Donald, and entreat you

to hear me for a few minutes."

"Talk on, then, but talk fast, and leave my mother alone! Let the dead

rest!" exclaimed the outlaw, with a violent convulsion of his bearded

chin and lip that did not escape the notice of Capitola, who hoped some

good of this betrayal of feeling.

"Donald," she said, "men call you a man of blood; they say that your

hand is red and your soul black with crime!"

"They may say what they like--I care not!" laughed the outlaw.

"But I do not believe all this of you! I believe that there is good in

all, and much good in you; that there is hope for all, and strong hope

for you!"

"Bosh! Stop talking poetry! 'Tain't in my line, nor yours, either!"

laughed Black Donald.

"But truth is in all our lines. Donald, I repeat it, men call you a man

of blood! They say that your hands are red and your soul black with

sin! Black Donald, they call you! But, Donald, you have never yet

stained your soul with a crime as black as that which you think of

perpetrating to-night!"




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