"And so you are going home? Where is your home, pretty one?"
"On the other side of the river. But you need not keep on calling me 'pretty one;' it must be as tiresome to you to repeat it as it is to me to hear it."
"What shall I call you, then, my dear?"
"You may call me Miss Black; or, if you are friendly, you may call me Capitola."
"Capitola!" exclaimed the man, in a deep and changed voice, as he dropped her bridle.
"Yes—Capitola; what objection have you got to that? It is a pretty name, isn't it? But if you think it is too long, and if you feel very friendly, you may call me Cap."
"Well, then, my pretty Cap, where do you live across the river?" asked the stranger, recovering his self-possession.
"Oh, at a rum old place they call Hurricane Hall, with a rum old military officer they call Old Hurricane," said Capitola, for the first time stealing a sidelong glance at her fearful companion.
It was not Black Donald; that was the first conclusion to which she rashly jumped. He appeared to be a gentlemanly ruffian about forty years of age, well dressed in a black riding-suit; black beaver hat drawn down close over his eyes: black hair and whiskers; heavy black eyebrows that met across his nose; drooping eyelashes, and eyes that looked out under the corners of the lids; altogether a sly, sinister, cruel face—a cross between a fox and a tiger. It warned Capitola to expect no mercy there. After the girl's last words he seemed to have fallen into thought for a moment, and then again he spoke:
"Well, my pretty Cap, how long have you been living at. Hurricane Hall?"