He was a relative of the Hautvilles, an uncle on the mother's side,
old and broken, scarcely able to find his feeble way on his shrunken
legs through the snow; but, with the instinct of gossip, the sharp
nose for his neighbors' affairs, still alert in him, he had arisen at
dawn to canvass the village, and had come thither at first, since he
anticipated that he might possibly have the delight of bringing the
intelligence before any of the family had heard it elsewhere. He came
in, dragging his old, snow-laden feet, tapping heavily with his stout
stick, and settled, cackling, into a chair.

"Heard the news?" queried Uncle Luke basset, his eyes, like black
sparks, twinkling rapidly at all their faces.

Madelon set the cups and saucers on the dresser.

"We don't have any time for anybody's business but our own," quoth
David Hautville, gruffly. He did not like his wife's uncle. He was
tightening a string in his bass-viol; he pulled it as he spoke, and
it gave out a fierce twang. Louis sat moodily over the fire with his
painful arm in wet bandages. Richard was whittling kindling-wood,
with nervous speed, beside him. Eugene and Abner were cleaning their
guns. They all looked at the eager old man except Richard and Louis
and Madelon.

"Burr Gordon has killed Lot so's to get his property," proclaimed the
old man, and his voice broke with eager delight and importance.

Madelon gave a cry and sprang forward in front of him. "It's a lie!"
she shouted.