"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!"
"It must be one o'clock, and I'm tired," replied the outlaw, with a yawn.