“I killed him with Richard's knife,” repeated Madelon.
Richard got up and came around before her, thrusting his hand in his pocket. He pulled out his own clasp-knife, and brandished it in her face. “Here is my knife,” he cried, fiercely—“my knife, with my name cut in the handle. Say you killed Lot Gordon with it again!”
Madelon snatched the knife out of her brother's hand and looked at it with straining eyes. There, indeed, was a rude “R. H.” cut in the horn handle. She gasped. “What does this mean?” she cried out.
“It means you have lost your wits,” answered Richard, contemptuously; but his eyes on his sister's face were full of pleading agony.
“What knife did you give me when I started home last night?”
“I gave you no knife.”
Old Luke Basset asserted himself again. “The gal's lost her balance,” he said. “It was Burr Gordon's knife, with his name cut into it, that was stickin' out of Lot Gordon's side.”
“Is Lot Gordon dead?” Louis demanded, hoarsely.
“No, he ain't dead, but the doctor thinks he can't live long. Ephraim Steele and Eleazer Hooper were a-goin' home from the ball when they come right on Lot layin' side of the road and Burr a-tryin' to draw his knife out, so it shouldn't testify against him.”
“It's a lie!” Madelon groaned. “Burr Gordon did not kill him. It was I! He met me, and tried to—kiss me, and—the knife was in my hand—Richard made me take it because I was coming home alone, and there had been rumors of a bear.”