s face to the window and
lay awake until and hour before dawn. Then he arose, dressed himself,
and went down-stairs. He put more wood on the hearth fire, then knelt
down before it, and puffed out his boyish cheeks at the bellows until
the new flames crept through the smoke. Then he lighted the lantern,
and went to the barn to milk and feed the stock. That was always
Richard's morning task, and he always on his way thither replenished
the hearth fire, that his sister Madelon might have a lighter and
speedier task at preparing breakfast. Madelon usually arose a
half-hour after Richard, and she was not behindhand this morning. She
entered the great living-room, lit the candles, and went about
getting breakfast. Human daily needs arise and set on tragedy as
remorselessly as the sun.

Madelon Hautville, who had washed but a few hours ago the stain of
murder from her hand, in whose heart was an unsounded depth of
despair, mixed up the corn-meal daintily with cream, and baked the
cakes which her father and brothers loved before the fire, and laid
the table. She had always attended to the needs of the males of her
family with the stern faithfulness of an Indian squaw. Now, as she
worked, the wonder, softer than her other emotions, was upon her as
to how they would get on when she was in prison and after she was
dead; for she made no doubt that she had killed Lot Gordon and the
sheriff would be there presently for her, and she felt plainly the
fretting of the rope around her soft neck. She hoped they would not
come for her until breakfast was prepared and eaten, the dishes
cleared away, and the house tidied; but she listened like a savage
for a foot-fall and a hand at the door. She had packed a little
bundle ready to take with her before she left her chamber. Her cloak
and hood were laid out on the bed.

When she sat down at the table with her father and brothers, all of
them except Richard and Louis stared at her with open amazement and
questioned her. Richard and Louis stared furtively at their sister's
face, as stiff, set, and pale as if she were dead, but they asked no
questions. Madelon said, in a voice that was not hers, that she was
not sick, and put pieces of Indian cake into her untasting mouth and
listened. But breakfast was well over and the dishes put away before
anybody came. And then it was not the sheriff to hale her to prison
on a charge of murder, but an old man from the village big with news.

He was a rela