The Were-Wolf | Page 5

listeners. The interest she excited
dissipated, in some degree, the dread inspired by the mysterious voices.
There was nothing ominous about this young, bright, fair reality,
though her aspect was strange.
Little Rol crept near, staring at the stranger with all his might.
Unnoticed, he softly stroked and patted a corner of her soft white robe
that reached to the floor in ample folds. He laid his cheek against it
caressingly, and then edged up close to her knees.
"What is your name?" he asked.
The stranger's smile and ready answer, as she looked down, saved Rol
from the rebuke merited by his unmannerly question.
"My real name," she said, "would be uncouth to your ears and tongue.
The folk of this country have given me another name, and from this"
(she laid her hand on the fur robe) "they call me 'White Fell.'"
Little Rol repeated it to himself, stroking and patting as before. "White
Fell, White Fell."
The fair face, and soft, beautiful dress pleased Rol. He knelt up, with
his eyes on her face and an air of uncertain determination, like a robin's
on a doorstep, and plumped his elbows into her lap with a little gasp at
his own audacity.
"Rol!" exclaimed his aunt; but, "Oh, let him!" said White Fell, smiling
and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.
He advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the
face of his aunt's authority, climbed up on to her knees. Her welcoming
arms hindered any protest. He nestled happily, fingering the axe head,
the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at her throat, the plaits of
fair hair; rubbing his head against the softness of her fur-clad shoulder,
with a child's full confidence in the kindness of beauty.
White Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant fur

loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it,
whispering her name to himself, "White Fell, White Fell," then slid his
arms round her neck, and kissed her--once--twice. She laughed
delightedly, and kissed him again.
"The child plagues you?" said Sweyn.
"No, indeed," she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to seem
disproportionate to the occasion.
Rol settled himself again on her lap, and began to unwind the bandage
bound round his hand. He paused a little when he saw where the blood
had soaked through; then went on till his hand was bare and the cut
displayed, gaping and long, though only skin deep. He held it up
towards White Fell, desirous of her pity and sympathy.
At sight of it, and the blood-stained linen, she drew in her breath
suddenly, clasped Rol to her--hard, hard--till he began to struggle. Her
face was hidden behind the boy, so that none could see its expression.
It had lighted up with a most awful glee.
Afar, beyond the fir-grove, beyond the low hill behind, the absent
Christian was hastening his return. From daybreak he had been afoot,
carrying notice of a bear hunt to all the best hunters of the farms and
hamlets that lay within a radius of twelve miles. Nevertheless, having
been detained till a late hour, he now broke into a run, going with a
long smooth stride of apparent ease that fast made the miles diminish.
He entered the midnight blackness of the fir-grove with scarcely
slackened pace, though the path was invisible; and passing through into
the open again, sighted the farm lying a furlong off down the slope.
Then he sprang out freely, and almost on the instant gave one great
sideways leap, and stood still. There in the snow was the track of a
great wolf.
His hand went to his knife, his only weapon. He stooped, knelt down,
to bring his eyes to the level of a beast, and peered about; his teeth set,
his heart beat a little harder than the pace of his running insisted on. A

solitary wolf, nearly always savage and of large size, is a formidable
beast that will not hesitate to attack a single man. This wolf-track was
the largest Christian had ever seen, and, so far as he could judge,
recently made. It led from under the fir-trees down the slope. Well for
him, he thought, was the delay that had so vexed him before: well for
him that he had not passed through the dark fir-grove when that danger
of jaws lurked there. Going warily, he followed the track.
It led down the slope, across a broad ice-bound stream, along the level
beyond, making towards the farm. A less precise knowledge had
doubted, and guessed that here might have come straying big Tyr or his
like; but Christian was sure, knowing better than to mistake between
footmark of dog and wolf.
Straight on--straight on towards the farm.