ck 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
pe