ook me for Burr," whispered Lot
Gordon.

"Are you much hurt?"

"I--don't know. The knife has gone a little way into my side. It has
not reached my heart, but that was hurt unto death already by life,
so this matters not."

Madelon felt along his side and hit the handle of the clasp-knife,
firmly fixed.

"Don't try to draw it out--you cannot," said Lot, and his pain forced
a groan from him. "I'll live, if I can, till the wound is healed for
the sake of your peace. I'd be content to die of it, since you gave
it in vengeance for another man's kiss, if it were not for you. But
they shall never know--they shall never--know." Lot's voice died
away in a faint murmur between his parted lips; his eyes stared up
with no meaning in them at the wintry stars.

Madelon ran back on the road to the village, taking great leaps
through the snow, straining her eyes ahead. Now and then she cried
out hoarsely, as if she really saw some one, "Hullo! hullo!" At the
curve of the road she turned a headlong corner and ran roughly
against a man who was hurrying towards her; and this time it was Burr
Gordon.

Burr reeled back with the shock; then his face peered into hers with
fear and wonder. "Is it you?" he stammered out. "What is the matter?"

But Madelon caught his arm in a hard grip. "Come, quick!" she gasped,
and pulled him along the road after her.

"What is the matter?" Burr demanded, half yielding and half
resisting.

Madelon faced him suddenly as they sped along. "I met your cousin Lot
just below here and he kissed me, and I took him for you and stabbed
him, if you must know," she sobbed out, dryly.

Burr gave a choking cry of horror.

"I think I--have killed him," said she, and pulled him on faster.

"And you meant to kill me?"

"Yes, I did."

"I wish to God you had!" Burr cried out, with a sudden fierce anger
at himself and her; and now he hurried on faster than she.

Lot was quite motionless when they reached him. Burr threw himself
down in the snow and leaned his ear to his cousin's heart. Madelon
stood over them, panting. Suddenly a merry roulade of whistling broke
the awful stillness. Two men were coming down the road whistling
"Roy's Wife of Alidivalloch" as clearly soft and sweet as flutes,
accented with human gayety and mirth.

On came the merry whistlers. Burr sprang up and grasped Madelon
Hautville's arm. "He isn't dead," he whispered, hoarsely. "Somebody's
coming. Go home, quick!"

But Madelon looke