"
"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.
"All your former acts," continued Capitola, in the same voice of
awful calmness, "have been those of a bold, bad man. This act would
be that of a base one!"
"Take care, girl--no bad names! You are in my power--at my mercy!"
"I know my position, but I must continue. Hitherto you have robbed
mail coaches and broken into rich men's houses.
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