“You can't get him,” said Richard Hautville, still addressing the other two, as if they had spoken. “Louis said you couldn't. His wife's got the typhus-fever, and he's up nights watching with her—won't let anybody else. You can't get him.”
“We can't have a ball without a fiddler,” one young man said, soberly.
“Maybe Madelon would lilt for the dancing,” Burr Gordon said; and then he colored furiously, as if he had startled himself in saying it.
The boy turned on him. “Maybe you think my sister will lilt for you to dance, Burr Gordon!” cried he, and his face blazed white in Burr's eyes, and he shook his slender brown fist.
“Nobody wants your sister to lilt if she isn't willing to,” Burr returned, in a hard voice; and he snatched up a hemlock bough, and went away with it to the other side of the ball-room.
“My sister won't lilt for you, and you can have your ball the best way you can!” shouted the boy, his angry eyes following Burr. Then he went out of the ball-room with a leap, and slammed the door so that the tavern trembled.
The young men chuckled. “Injun blood is up,” said one.
“You'll be scalped, Burr,” called the other.
Burr came over to them with an angry stride. “Oh, quit fooling!” said he, impatiently. “What's going to be done?”
“Nothing can be done; we shall have to give the ball up for to-night unless you can get Madelon Hautville to lilt for the dancing,” returned one, and the other nodded assent. “That's the state of the case,” said he.