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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 but that, and he with Tyr would be free to kill or be killed.

Then he returned to ask fresh questions.

“How long has the stranger been here?”

“She came about half-an-hour before you.”

“Who opened the door to her?”

“Sweyn: no one else dared.”

The tone of the answer was mysterious.

“Why?” queried Christian. “Has anything strange happened? Tell me.”

For answer he was told in a low undertone of the summons at the door thrice repeated without human agency; and of Tyr’s ominous howls; and of Sweyn’s fruitless watch outside.

Christian turned towards his brother in a torment of impatience for a word apart. The board was spread, and Sweyn was leading White Fell to the guest’s place. This was more awful: she would break bread with them under the roof-tree!

He started forward, and touching Sweyn’s arm, whispered an urgent entreaty. Sweyn stared, and shook his head in angry impatience.

Thereupon Christian would take no morsel of food.

His opportunity came at last. White Fell questioned of the landmarks of the country, and of one Cairn Hill, which was an appointed meeting-place at which she was due that night. The house-mistress and Sweyn both exclaimed.

“It is three long miles away,” said Sweyn; “with no place for shelter but a wretched hut. Stay with us this night, and I will show you the way to-morrow.”

White Fell seemed to hesitate. “Three miles,” she said; “then I should be able to see or hear a signal.”

“I will look out,” said Sweyn; “then, if there be no signal, you must not leave us.”

He went to the door. Christian rose silently, and followed him out.

“Sweyn, do you know what she is?”

Sweyn, surprised at the vehement grasp, and low hoarse voice, made answer:

“She? Who? White Fell?”

“Yes.”

“She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

“She is a Were-Wolf.”

Sweyn burst out laughing. “Are you mad?” he asked.

“No; here, see for yourself.”

Christian drew him out of the porch, pointing to the snow where the footmarks had been. Had been, for now they were not. Snow was falling fast, and every dint was blotted out.

“Well?” asked Sweyn.

“Had you come when I signed to you, you would have seen for yourself.”

“Seen what?”

“The footprints of a wolf leading up to the door; none leading away.”

It was impossible not to be startled by the tone alone, though it was hardly above a whisper. Sweyn eyed his brother anxiously, but in the darkness could make nothing of his face. Then he laid his hands kindly and re-assuringly on Christian’s shoulders and felt how he was quivering with excitement and horror.