The Were-Wolf | Page 2

checked the
wheel for an instant; he shifted hastily. The wheel flew on with a jerk,
and the thread snapped. "Naughty Rol!" said the girl. The swiftest
wheel stopped also, and the house-mistress, Rol's aunt, leaned forward,
and sighting the low curly head, gave a warning against mischief, and
sent him off to old Trella's corner.
Rol obeyed, and after a discreet period of obedience, sidled out again
down the length of the room farthest from his aunt's eye. As he slipped
in among the men, they looked up to see that their tools might be, as far
as possible, out of reach of Rol's hands, and close to their own.
Nevertheless, before long he managed to secure a fine chisel and take
off its point on the leg of the table. The carver's strong objections to
this disconcerted Rol, who for five minutes thereafter effaced himself
under the table.
During this seclusion he contemplated the many pairs of legs that
surrounded him, and almost shut out the light of the fire. How very odd
some of the legs were: some were curved where they should be straight,
some were straight where they should be curved, and, as Rol said to
himself, "they all seemed screwed on differently." Some were tucked
away modestly under the benches, others were thrust far out under the
table, encroaching on Rol's own particular domain. He stretched out his
own short legs and regarded them critically, and, after comparison,
favourably. Why were not all legs made like his, or like his?
These legs approved by Rol were a little apart from the rest. He
crawled opposite and again made comparison. His face grew quite

solemn as he thought of the innumerable days to come before his legs
could be as long and strong. He hoped they would be just like those, his
models, as straight as to bone, as curved as to muscle.
A few moments later Sweyn of the long legs felt a small hand caressing
his foot, and looking down, met the upturned eyes of his little cousin
Rol. Lying on his back, still softly patting and stroking the young man's
foot, the child was quiet and happy for a good while. He watched the
movement of the strong deft hands, and the shifting of the bright tools.
Now and then, minute chips of wood, puffed off by Sweyn, fell down
upon his face. At last he raised himself, very gently, lest a jog should
wake impatience in the carver, and crossing his own legs round
Sweyn's ankle, clasping with his arms too, laid his head against the
knee. Such act is evidence of a child's most wonderful hero-worship.
Quite content was Rol, and more than content when Sweyn paused a
minute to joke, and pat his head and pull his curls. Quiet he remained,
as long as quiescence is possible to limbs young as his. Sweyn forgot
he was near, hardly noticed when his leg was gently released, and never
saw the stealthy abstraction of one of his tools.
[Illustration: Rol's Worship]
Ten minutes thereafter was a lamentable wail from low on the floor,
rising to the full pitch of Rol's healthy lungs; for his hand was gashed
across, and the copious bleeding terrified him. Then was there soothing
and comforting, washing and binding, and a modicum of scolding, till
the loud outcry sank into occasional sobs, and the child, tear-stained
and subdued, was returned to the chimney-corner settle, where Trella
nodded.
In the reaction after pain and fright, Rol found that the quiet of that
fire-lit corner was to his mind. Tyr, too, disdained him no longer, but,
roused by his sobs, showed all the concern and sympathy that a dog can
by licking and wistful watching. A little shame weighed also upon his
spirits. He wished he had not cried quite so much. He remembered how
once Sweyn had come home with his arm torn down from the shoulder,
and a dead bear; and how he had never winced nor said a word, though
his lips turned white with pain. Poor little Rol gave another sighing sob

over his own faint-hearted shortcomings.
The light and motion of the great fire began to tell strange stories to the
child, and the wind in the chimney roared a corroborative note now and
then. The great black mouth of the chimney, impending high over the
hearth, received as into a mysterious gulf murky coils of smoke and
brightness of aspiring sparks; and beyond, in the high darkness, were
muttering and wailing and strange doings, so that sometimes the smoke
rushed back in panic, and curled out and up to the roof, and condensed
itself to invisibility among the rafters. And then the wind would rage
after its lost prey, and rush round the house, rattling