“Does he know anybody?” queried David Hautville.

“Just as well as ever he did.”  Margaret Bean rubbed a tear dry on her cheek with her starched apron.

“We’ve got to see him, then.”

“I dunno as you can—­the doctor—­”

“I don’t care anything about the doctor!  We’ve got to see him!" David’s voice rang out quite loud in the hush of murder and death which seemed to fill the house.  Margaret Bean stood aside with a scared look.  David Hautville threw open the door on the right, and he and Madelon went in.

Lot Gordon’s eyes turned towards them, but not his head.  He lay as still in bed as if he were already dead, and his long body raised the gay patchwork quilt in a stiff ridge like a grave.

Madelon went close to him and bent over him.  “Tell who stabbed you,” said she, in a sharp voice.

Lot looked up at her, and a red flush came over his livid face.

“Tell who stabbed you.”

Lot smiled feebly, but he did not speak.

Margaret Bean came in, with her old husband shuffling at her heels.  A great face, bristling with a yellow stubble of beard, appeared in the door.  It belonged to the sheriff, Jonas Hapgood, who had just returned from taking Burr to New Salem.  Madelon cast a desperate glance around at them.  “Lot Gordon,” she cried out, “tell them—­tell them I was the one who stabbed you, and set Burr free!”

There was a chuckle from Jonas Hapgood in the door.  “Likely story,” he muttered to Margaret Bean’s husband, and the old man nodded wisely.

“Tell them!” commanded Madelon.  She reached out a hand as if she would shake Lot Gordon into obedience, wounded unto death although he was, but Lot only smiled up in her face.

Then David Hautville bent his stern face down to the sick man’s.  “Lot Gordon, tell the truth before God, daughter of mine or no daughter of mine,” said he, in his deep voice.  Lot only followed Madelon with his longing, smiling eyes.

“Speak, Lot Gordon!”

The wounded man turned his eyes on David and made a feeble motion, scarcely more than a quiver of his hand, which seemed to express negation.

“Can’t you speak?”

Again Lot made that faint signal.

“He ain’t spoke sence they brought him home,” said Margaret Bean—­“not a word to the doctor nor nobody.”

“I couldn’t get a word out of him,” announced the sheriff, stepping farther into the room.  “In course, there was Burr’s knife and Burr himself over him when the others came up, and that was proof enough; but still we kinder thought we’d like to have Lot’s word for it afore he died, in case it came to hangin’ with Burr; but I guess he’s past speakin’.  I miss my guess if he can sense anything we say.”

“Tell them—­tell them I was the one who stabbed you, and Burr is innocent!” Madelon pleaded; but he smiled back at her unmoved.

Jonas Hapgood’s great body shook with mirth.  “Likely story a gal did it,” he chuckled.