The Were-Wolf | Page 6

Surprised and anxious grew Christian, that a prowling wolf should dare
so near. He drew his knife and pressed on, more hastily, more
keen-eyed. Oh that Tyr were with him!
Straight on, straight on, even to the very door, where the snow failed.
His heart seemed to give a great leap and then stop. There the track
ended.
Nothing lurked in the porch, and there was no sign of return. The firs
stood straight against the sky, the clouds lay low; for the wind had
fallen and a few snowflakes came drifting down. In a horror of surprise,
Christian stood dazed a moment: then he lifted the latch and went in.
His glance took in all the old familiar forms and faces, and with them
that of the stranger, fur-clad and beautiful. The awful truth flashed upon
him: he knew what she was.
Only a few were startled by the rattle of the latch as he entered. The
room was filled with bustle and movement, for it was the supper hour,
when all tools were laid aside, and trestles and tables shifted. Christian
had no knowledge of what he said and did; he moved and spoke
mechanically, half thinking that soon he must wake from this horrible
dream. Sweyn and his mother supposed him to be cold and dead-tired,

and spared all unnecessary questions. And he found himself seated
beside the hearth, opposite that dreadful Thing that looked like a
beautiful girl; watching her every movement, curdling with horror to
see her fondle the child Rol.
Sweyn stood near them both, intent upon White Fell also; but how
differently! She seemed unconscious of the gaze of both--neither aware
of the chill dread in the eyes of Christian, nor of Sweyn's warm
admiration.
These two brothers, who were twins, contrasted greatly, despite their
striking likeness. They were alike in regular profile, fair brown hair,
and deep blue eyes; but Sweyn's features were perfect as a young god's,
while Christian's showed faulty details. Thus, the line of his mouth was
set too straight, the eyes shelved too deeply back, and the contour of
the face flowed in less generous curves than Sweyn's. Their height was
the same, but Christian was too slender for perfect proportion, while
Sweyn's well-knit frame, broad shoulders, and muscular arms, made
him pre-eminent for manly beauty as well as for strength. As a hunter
Sweyn was without rival; as a fisher without rival. All the countryside
acknowledged him to be the best wrestler, rider, dancer, singer. Only in
speed could he be surpassed, and in that only by his younger brother.
All others Sweyn could distance fairly; but Christian could outrun him
easily. Ay, he could keep pace with Sweyn's most breathless burst, and
laugh and talk the while. Christian took little pride in his fleetness of
foot, counting a man's legs to be the least worthy of his members. He
had no envy of his brother's athletic superiority, though to several feats
he had made a moderate second. He loved as only a twin can
love--proud of all that Sweyn did, content with all that Sweyn was;
humbly content also that his own great love should not be so
exceedingly returned, since he knew himself to be so far less
love-worthy.
Christian dared not, in the midst of women and children, launch the
horror that he knew into words. He waited to consult his brother; but
Sweyn did not, or would not, notice the signal he made, and kept his
face always turned towards White Fell. Christian drew away from the

hearth, unable to remain passive with that dread upon him.
"Where is Tyr?" he said suddenly. Then, catching sight of the dog in a
distant corner, "Why is he chained there?"
"He flew at the stranger," one answered.
Christian's eyes glowed. "Yes?" he said, interrogatively.
"He was within an ace of having his brain knocked out."
"Tyr?"
"Yes; she was nimbly up with that little axe she has at her waist. It was
well for old Tyr that his master throttled him off."
Christian went without a word to the corner where Tyr was chained.
The dog rose up to meet him, as piteous and indignant as a dumb beast
can be. He stroked the black head. "Good Tyr! brave dog!"
They knew, they only; and the man and the dumb dog had comfort of
each other.
Christian's eyes turned again towards White Fell: Tyr's also, and he
strained against the length of the chain. Christian's hand lay on the
dog's neck, and he felt it ridge and bristle with the quivering of
impotent fury. Then he began to quiver in like manner, with a fury born
of reason, not instinct; as impotent morally as was Tyr physically. Oh!
the woman's form that he dare not touch! Anything