Madelon stood farther away from him, but her eyes did not fall before his.
“Why did you lie” said she. “You knew I stabbed you, and not yourself. You are a liar, Lot Gordon.”
But Lot still smiled as he answered her. “However it may be with other men, no happening has come to me since I set foot upon this earth that I brought not upon myself by my own deeds. The hand that set the knife in my side was my own, and I have not lied.”
“You have lied. Tell them the truth.”
“I have told the truth that lies at the bottom of the well.”
“Call them all in now, and tell them—I—did it, I—”
Lot Gordon raised himself a little, and looked at her with the mocking expression gone suddenly from his face. “What good do you think it would do if I did, Madelon?” he said, with a strange sadness in his voice.
She looked at him.
“I shall not die of the wound. You can't escape me by prison or a disgraceful death, and as for me, do you think it would make any difference to me if all the village pointed at you, Madelon?”
Madelon looked at him as if she were frozen.