the settle, with his face swathed
like a mummy's, with only enough space clear for breath. "Let me go,
or I'll--" he threatened, in his smothered tone.

Madelon made no reply. She watched him struggle to be sure that he
could not free himself. Then she went out of the room. Eugene called
after her in a choke of fury, but she spoke not a word.

Up-stairs she hastened to her own chamber, and put on her red cloak
and hood, and was down the stairs again, out the door, and hurrying
up the road to the village. From time to time she glanced behind her
to be sure that her brother had not freed himself, and was not in
pursuit; then she sped on faster. The road was glare with ice, but
she did not slow her pace for that. She was as sure-footed as a hare.
She kept her arms close to her sides under her red cloak, and did not
pause until she came out on the village street where the houses were
thick. Then she went at a rapid walk, still glancing sharply behind
her to see if she were followed, until she came to Parson Fair's
house. She went up the front walk, between the rows of ice-coated
box, and up the stone steps under the stately columned porch, and
raised the knocker and let it fall with sharp impetus. The door
opened speedily a little way, and Parson Fair himself stood there,
his pale, stern old face framed in the dark aperture. He bowed with
gentle courtesy and bade her good-morning, and Madelon courtesied
hurriedly and spoke out her errand with no preface.

"Can I see your daughter, sir?" said she.

Parson Fair looked at Madelon's white face, touched on the cheeks and
lips with feverish red, at her set mouth and desperate eyes. The
story of her connection with the Gordon tragedy had not penetrated to
his study, neither did he know how Burr had forsaken her for his
Dorothy; but he saw something was amiss with her, although he was not
well versed in the signs of a woman's face. Parson Fair, moreover,
felt somewhat of interest in this Madelon Hautville, for he had a
decorously restrained passion for sweet sounds which she had often
gratified. Many a Sabbath day had he sat in his beetling pulpit and
striven to keep his mind fixed upon the spirit of the hymn alone, in
spite of his leaping pulses, when Madelon's great voice filled the
meeting-house. It was probable that he also, notwithstanding his
Christian grace, shared somewhat the popular sentiments towards these
musical and Bohemian Hautvilles; yet he looked with a dignif