“Fool!” David Hautville jerked the bridle so fiercely that the mare reared far back again. He jerked her down to her feet, and she made a vicious lunge at him, but he shunted her away.
“I'll fasten you into your chamber,” he shouted, “if this work goes on! I'll stop your making a fool of yourself.”
“It is Lot Gordon that is making fools of you all,” said Madelon, in a hard, quiet voice.
“Did Burr Gordon say he didn't stab him?” cried her father.
“No; he wouldn't own it. He is trying to shield me.”
“He did it himself, and he'll hang for it.”
“No, he won't hang for what I did while I draw the breath of life. I've got the strength of ten in me. You don't know me, if I am your daughter.” Madelon freed her bridle with a quick movement, and the mare flew forward into the barn.
David Hautville stood looking after her in utter fury and bewilderment. Her last words rang in his ears and seemed true to him. He felt as if he did not know his own daughter. This awakening and lashing into action, by the terrible pressure of circumstances, of strange ancestral traits which he had himself transmitted was beyond his simple comprehension. He shook his head with a fierce helplessness and went into the barn.
“Go in and get the supper,” he ordered, “and I'll take care of the mare.”
As Madelon came out of the stall he grasped her roughly by the arm and peered sharply into her face. The thought seized him that she must surely not be in her right mind—that Burr's treatment of her and his danger had turned her brain. “Be you crazy, Madelon?” he asked, in his straightforward simplicity, and there was an accent of doubt and pity in his voice.