"Uncle, what is below there?" asked Capitola anxiously, pointing down the abyss.
"An old cellar, as I have told you long ago, and Black Donald, as you have just told me. Hilloe there! Are you killed, as you deserve to be, you atrocious villain?" roared Old Hurricane, stooping down into the opening.
A feeble distant moan answered him.
"Oh, heaven! He is living! He is living! I have not killed him!" cried Capitola, clasping her hands.
"Why, I do believe you are glad of it!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, in astonishment.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! For it was a fearful thought that I had been compelled to take a sacred life! to send an immortal soul unprepared to its account!"
"Well! his neck isn't broken, it appears, or he couldn't groan; but I hope and trust every other bone in his body is! Mrs. Condiment, mum! I'll trouble you to put on your bonnet and walk to Ezy's and tell him to come here directly! I must send for the constable," said Old Hurricane, going to the door and speaking to his housekeeper, who, with an appalled countenance had been a silent spectator of all that had passed.
As soon as the old woman had gone to do her errand he turned again, and stooping down the hole, exclaimed:
"I say, you scoundrel down there! What do you think of yourself now? Are you much hurt, you knave? Is everyone of your bones broken, as they deserve to be, you villain? Answer me, you varlet!"
A low, deep moan was the only response.