She felt not the cold, and if she had fever in her veins the fierce disregard of her straining spirit was beyond it.

No knowledge of her body at all had Madelon Hautville, no knowledge of anything on earth except her one aim--to save her lover's life.

She was nothing but a purpose concentrated upon one end; there was in her that great impetus of the human will which is above all the swift forces of the world when once it is aroused.
She unharnessed the horse quickly from the parson's sleigh, and led him, restive again at the near prospect of his stall and feed, back to the tavern stable, paid for him, and struck out on the homeward road, straight and swift as one of her Indian ancestors.

A group of men in the stable door stood aside with curious alacrity to let her pass; they stared after her, then at each other.
"I swan!" said one.
"Wouldn't like to be in the way when that gal was headed anywheres," said another.
"If that gal belonged to me I'd get her some stronger bits," said the man who had been cleaning the bay horse when Madelon came for the white.
"I believe she's lost her mind," said the tavern-keeper.

"It's the last time I'll ever let her have a horse, and I told her so." There came a blast of northwest wind which buffeted them about their faces and chests like an icy flail, and they scattered before it, some to their duties in the stable, some into the warm tavern for a mug of something hot to do away with the chill.