“I did not,” persisted Richard, doggedly.  “I did not make her take my knife.  Here is my knife, with my name cut in the handle.”

Madelon turned on him fiercely.  “You did, you know you did!” said she.

“Here is my knife, with my name cut on the handle.”

“You gave me a knife as I was coming out of the tavern.”

“No, I did not.”

“You did, and I killed him with it.  It was not Burr!  I ran for help, and I met Burr, and I told him what I had done, and he went back with me to Lot.  Then he sent me home when he heard somebody coming.  Ask Lot Gordon if I did not kill him; if he can speak he can tell you.”

“There won’t neither him nor Burr say a word,” said the old man, “but there was Burr’s knife a-stickin’ into Lot’s side, with his name cut into it.”

Madelon turned sharply to Louis.  “You saw the blood on my hand when I was rubbing your arm last night,” she said.

He made no reply, but stared gloomily at the fire.

“Louis, you saw Lot Gordon’s blood on my hand?”

Louis sprang up with an oath, and pushed past her out of the room.

“Louis,” Madelon cried, “tell them!”

“She is trying to shield Burr Gordon!” Louis called back, fiercely, and the closing door shook the house like a cannon-shot.

“Where is Burr?” Madelon demanded of old Luke Basset.

“The sheriff took him to New Salem to jail this morning,” he replied, grinning.

Madelon gave a great cry and started to rush out of the room, but her father stood in her way.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sternly.

“I am going to get my hood and cloak, and then I am going to Lot Gordon’s.”  Her father stood aside, and she went out and up-stairs to her chamber.  She took up the red cloak which lay on her bed, and examined it eagerly to see if by chance there was a blood stain thereon to prove her guilt and Burr Gordon’s innocence, but she could find none.  She had flung it back when she struck.  She looked also carefully at her pretty ball gown, but the black fabric showed no stain.

When she went down-stairs with her cloak and hood on old Luke Basset was gone, and so were her brothers.  Her father stood waiting for her, and he had on his fur cap and his heavy cloak.  He came forward and took her firmly by the arm.  “I’m going with you to Lot Gordon’s,” said he.  And they went out together and up the road, he still keeping a firm hand on his daughter’s arm, and neither spoke all the way to Lot Gordon’s house.

When they reached it David Hautville opened the door without touching the knocker, and strode in with Madelon following.  Old Margaret Bean was just passing through the entry with a great roll of linen cloths in her arms, and she stopped when she saw them.

“How is he?” whispered David, hoarsely.

“He’s pretty low,” returned Margaret Bean, at the same time nodding her head cautiously towards the door on her right.  Long, smooth loops of sallow hair fell from Margaret Bean’s clean white cap over her cheeks, which looked as if they had been scrubbed and rasped red with tears.  Her own gray hair was strained back out of sight—­not to be discovered, even when there was a murder in the house.