Madelon stood for a second looking at the dark, prostrate form as one of her Iroquois ancestors might have looked at a fallen foe before he drew his scalping-knife; then suddenly the surging of the savage blood in her ears grew faint.

She fell down on her knees beside him.
"Have I killed you, Burr ?" she said, and bent her face down to his--and it was not Burr, but Lot Gordon! The white, peaked face smiled up at her out of the snow.

"You haven't killed me if I die, since you took me for Burr," whispered Lot Gordon.
"Are you much hurt ?" "I--don't know.

The knife has gone a little way into my side.

It has not reached my heart, but that was hurt unto death already by life, so this matters not." Madelon felt along his side and hit the handle of the clasp-knife, firmly fixed.
"Don't try to draw it out--you cannot," said Lot, and his pain forced a groan from him.