"Yes; who is he? where is he? what is he? that every cheek turns pale at
the mention of his name?" asked Capitola.

"Black Donald! Oh, my child, may you never know more of Black Donald
than I can tell you. Black Donald is the chief of a band of ruthless
desperadoes that infest these mountain roads, robbing mail coaches,
stealing negroes, breaking into houses and committing every sort of
depredation. Their hands are red with murder and their souls black with
darker crimes."

"Darker crimes than murder!" ejaculated Capitola.

"Yes, child, yes; there are darker crimes. Only last winter he and three
of his gang broke into a solitary house where there was a lone woman and
her daughter, and--it is not a story for you to hear; but if the people
had caught Black Donald then they would have burned him at the stake!
His life is forfeit by a hundred crimes. He is an outlaw, and a heavy
price is set upon his head."

"And can no one take him?"

"No, my dear; at least, no one has been able to do so yet. His very
haunts are unknown, but are supposed to be in concealed mountain
caverns."

"How I would like the glory of capturing Black Donald!" said Capitola.

"You, child! You capture Black Donald! You are crazy!"

"Oh, by stratagem, I mean, not by force. Oh, how I should like to
capture Black Donald!--There's my horse; good-by!" and before Mrs.
Condiment could raise another objection Capitola ran out, sprang into
her saddle and was seen careering down the hill toward the river as fast
as her horse could fly.

"My Lord, but the major will be hopping if he finds it out!" was good
Mrs. Condiment's dismayed exclamation.

Rejoicing in her freedom, Cap galloped down to the water's edge, and
then walked her horse up and down along the course of the stream until
she found a good fording place. Then, gathering up her riding skirt and
throwing it over the neck of her horse she plunged boldly into the
stream, and, with the water splashing and foaming all around her, urged
him onward till they crossed the river and climbed up the opposite bank.
A bridle-path lay before her, leading from the fording place through a
deep wood. That path attracted her; she followed it, charmed alike by
the solitude of the wood, the novelty of the scene and her own sense of
freedom. But one thought was given to the story of Black Donald, and
that was a reassuring one:

"If Black Donald is a mail robber, then this little bridle-path is far
enough off his