"Mrs. Condiment, once for all do tell me who this terrible Black Donald is? Is he the Evil One himself, or the Man in the Iron Mask, or the individual that struck Billy Patterson, or—who is he?"
"Who is Black Donald? Good gracious, child, you ask me who is Black Donald!"
"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!"