The Were-Wolf | Page 4

planks quivering, as on the instant
his hand was upon the door, flinging it open, to face the blank porch,
and beyond only snow and sky, and firs aslant in the wind.
He stood for a long minute with the open door in his hand. The bitter
wind swept in with its icy chill, but a deadlier chill of fear came swifter,
and seemed to freeze the beating of hearts. Sweyn stepped back to
snatch up a great bearskin cloak.
"Sweyn, where are you going?"
"No farther than the porch, mother," and he stepped out and closed the
door.
He wrapped himself in the heavy fur, and leaning against the most
sheltered wall of the porch, steeled his nerves to face the devil and all
his works. No sound of voices came from within; the most distinct
sound was the crackle and roar of the fire.
It was bitterly cold. His feet grew numb, but he forbore stamping them
into warmth lest the sound should strike panic within; nor would he
leave the porch, nor print a foot-mark on the untrodden white that
declared so absolutely how no human voices and hands could have
approached the door since snow fell two hours or more ago. "When the
wind drops there will be more snow," thought Sweyn.

For the best part of an hour he kept his watch, and saw no living
thing--heard no unwonted sound. "I will freeze here no longer," he
muttered, and re-entered.
One woman gave a half-suppressed scream as his hand was laid on the
latch, and then a gasp of relief as he came in. No one questioned him,
only his mother said, in a tone of forced unconcern, "Could you not see
Christian coming?" as though she were made anxious only by the
absence of her younger son. Hardly had Sweyn stamped near to the fire
than clear knocking was heard at the door. Tyr leapt from the hearth,
his eyes red as the fire, his fangs showing white in the black jowl, his
neck ridged and bristling; and overleaping Rol, ramped at the door,
barking furiously.
Outside the door a clear mellow voice was calling. Tyr's bark made the
words undistinguishable.
No one offered to stir towards the door before Sweyn.
He stalked down the room resolutely, lifted the latch, and swung back
the door.
A white-robed woman glided in.
No wraith! Living--beautiful--young.
Tyr leapt upon her.
Lithely she baulked the sharp fangs with folds of her long fur robe, and
snatching from her girdle a small two-edged axe, whirled it up for a
blow of defence.
Sweyn caught the dog by the collar, and dragged him off yelling and
struggling.
The stranger stood in the doorway motionless, one foot set forward,
one arm flung up, till the house-mistress hurried down the room; and
Sweyn, relinquishing to others the furious Tyr, turned again to close the

door, and offer excuse for so fierce a greeting. Then she lowered her
arm, slung the axe in its place at her waist, loosened the furs about her
face, and shook over her shoulders the long white robe--all as it were
with the sway of one movement.
She was a maiden, tall and very fair. The fashion of her dress was
strange, half masculine, yet not unwomanly. A fine fur tunic, reaching
but little below the knee, was all the skirt she wore; below were the
cross-bound shoes and leggings that a hunter wears. A white fur cap
was set low upon the brows, and from its edge strips of fur fell
lappet-wise about her shoulders; two of these at her entrance had been
drawn forward and crossed about her throat, but now, loosened and
thrust back, left unhidden long plaits of fair hair that lay forward on
shoulder and breast, down to the ivory-studded girdle where the axe
gleamed.
Sweyn and his mother led the stranger to the hearth without question or
sign of curiosity, till she voluntarily told her tale of a long journey to
distant kindred, a promised guide unmet, and signals and landmarks
mistaken.
"Alone!" exclaimed Sweyn in astonishment. "Have you journeyed thus
far, a hundred leagues, alone?"
She answered "Yes" with a little smile.
"Over the hills and the wastes! Why, the folk there are savage and wild
as beasts."
She dropped her hand upon her axe with a laugh of some scorn.
"I fear neither man nor beast; some few fear me." And then she told
strange tales of fierce attack and defence, and of the bold free huntress
life she had led.
Her words came a little slowly and deliberately, as though she spoke in
a scarce familiar tongue; now and then she hesitated, and stopped in a
phrase, as though for lack of some word.

She became the centre of a group of