David drew his daughter along, out of the barn, across the snowy yard
to the house, she pleading frantically all the way, he soothing her
with his sudden wisdom of assent and evasion.

The hearth fire was blazing high when Madelon entered the kitchen.
The red glare of it was on her white face, upturned to her father's
with one last pleading of despair. She clutched his arm and shook his
great frame to and fro.

"Father, promise me you'll go over to New Salem to-night and tell
them to set him free and take me instead! Father!"

"We'll see about it, Madelon," answered David Hautville. There was a
tone in his voice which she had never heard before. It might have
come unconsciously to himself from some memory, so old that it was
itself forgotten, of his dead wife's voice over the child in her
cradle. Some echo of it might have yet lingered in the old father's
soul, through something finer than his instinct for sweet sounds from
human throat and viol--through his ear for love.

"Get the supper now, and we'll see about it," said David Hautville.
He began fumbling with clumsy fingers, all unused to women's gear, at
the string of this daughter's cloak; but she pulled herself away from
him suddenly, and the old hard lines came into her face. "We'll say
no more about it," said she. She lit a candle quickly at the hearth
fire, and was out of the room to put away her cloak and hood. Her
father lighted his lantern slowly and went back to the barn, plodding
meditatively through the snowy track, with the melting mood still
strong upon him. He was disposed to carry matters now with a high and