The two intended brides were engaged, under the direction of Mrs. Warfield, in her dressing-room, consulting over certain proprieties of the approaching festival. But Capitola could give only a half attention to the discussion. Her thoughts were with the poor condemned man who was to die the next day.
And suddenly she flew out of the room, summoned her groom, mounted her horse, and rode away.
In his condemned cell Black Donald was bitterly realizing how unprepared he was to die, and how utterly impossible it was for him to prepare in the short hours left him. He tried to pray, but could form no other petition than that he might be allowed, if possible, a little longer to fit himself to meet his Creator. From his cell he could hear the striking of the great clock in the prison hall. And as every hour struck it seemed "a nail driven in his coffin."
At eight o'clock that night the warden sat in his little office, consulting the sheriff about some details of the approaching execution. While they were still in discussion, a turnkey opened the door, saying:
"A lady to see the warden."
And Capitola stood before them!
"Miss Black!" exclaimed both sheriff and warden, rising in surprise, gazing upon our heroine, and addressing her by the name under which they had first known her.
"Yes, gentlemen, it is I. The truth is, I cannot rest to-night without saying a few words of comfort to the poor man who is to die to-morrow. So I came hither, attended by my groom, to know if I may see him for a few minutes."
"Miss Black, here is the sheriff. It is just as he pleases. My orders were so strict that had you come to me alone I should have been obliged to refuse you."
"Mr. Keepe, you will not refuse me," said Capitola, turning to the sheriff.