ank from bloodshed," said
the man in a husky voice.

"Bah! superstition! Bloodshed--blood is shed every day! 'We kill to
live!' say the butchers. So do we. Every creature preys upon some other
creature weaker than himself--the big beasts eat up the little
ones--artful men live on the simple! So be it! The world was made for
the strong and cunning! Let the weak and foolish look to themselves!"
said the outlaw, with a loud laugh.

While he spoke the visitor resumed his rapid, restless striding up and
down the room. Presently he came again to the side of the robber and
whispered:

"Donald, that girl has returned to the neighborhood, brought back by old
Warfield. My son met her in the woods a month ago, fell into
conversation with her, heard her history, or as much of it as she
herself knows. Her name is Capitola! She is the living image of her
mother! How she came under the notice of old Warfield--to what extent he
is acquainted with her birth and rights--what proofs may be in his
possession I know not. All that I have discovered after the strictest
inquiry that I was enabled to make, is this--that the old beggar woman
that died and was buried at Major Warfield's expense, was no other than
Nancy Grewell, returned--that the night before she died she sent for
Major Warfield and had a long talk with him, and that shortly afterward
the old scoundrel traveled to the north and brought home this girl!"

"Humph! it is an ugly business, your honor, especially with your honor's
little prejudice against----"

"Donald, this is no time for weakness! I have gone too far to stop!
Capitola must die!"

"That's so, colonel--the pity is that it wasn't found out fourteen years
ago. It is so much easier to pinch a baby's nose until it falls asleep
than to stifle a young girl's shrieks and cries--then the baby would not
have been missed--but the young girl will be sure to be inquired after."

"I know that there will be additional risk, but there shall be the
larger compensation, larger than your most sanguine hopes would suggest.
Donald, listen!" said the colonel, stooping and whispering low--"the day
that you bring me undeniable proofs that Capitola Le Noir is dead, you
finger one thousand dollars!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the outlaw, in angry scorn. "Capitola Le Noir is
the sole heiress of a fortune--in land, negroes, coal mines, iron
foundries, railway shares and bank stock of half a million of
dollars--and you ask me to get her out