She did not seem to see him. Nothing about her
seemed alive but her gently moving hands.
Suddenly he gave a startled cry. "What's that? Have you cut your
hand, Madelon?" Madelon glanced at her hand, and there was a broad
red stain over the palm and three of her fingers.
"No," said she, and went on rubbing.
"But it looks like blood!" cried Louis, knitting his pale brows at
her.
Madelon made no reply.
"Madelon, what is that on your hand?"
"Blood."
"How came it there?"
"You'll know to-morrow." Madelon put the stopper in the cider-brandy
and wormwood bottle; then she covered up the wounded arm and went
out.
"Madelon, what is it? What is the matter? What ails you?" Louis
called after her.
"You'll know to-morrow," said she, and shut her chamber door, which
was nearly opposite Louis's. His youngest brother Richard occupied
the same room, having his little cot at the other side, under the
window. When he came in, an hour later, Louis turned to him eagerly.
"Has anything happened?" he demanded.
The boy's face, which was always so like his sister's, had the same
despair in it now. "Don't know of anything that's happened," he
returned, surlily.
"What ails Madelon?"
"I tell you I don't know." Richard would say no more.
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