{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13131/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13131","id":"gutenberg_13131","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13131","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Werewolves -- Fiction"],"text":"Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 13131-h.htm or 13131-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/1/3/13131/13131-h/13131-h.htm)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/1/3/13131/13131-h.zip)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WERE-WOLF\n\nby\n\nCLEMENCE HOUSMAN\n\nWith Six Illustrations by Laurence Housman\n\n1896\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Holy Water]\n\n\n\nTO THE DEAR MEMORY OF\nE.W.P.\n\n\"YOU WILL THINK OF ME SOMETIMES,\nMY DEAR?\"\n\n\n\nLIST OF PLATES\n\nHoly Water\nRol's Worship\nWhite Fell's Escape\nThe Race\nThe Finish\nSweyn's Finding\n\n\n\nTHE WERE-WOLF\n\nThe great farm hall was ablaze with the fire-light, and noisy with\nlaughter and talk and many-sounding work. None could be idle but\nthe very young and the very old: little Rol, who was hugging a\npuppy, and old Trella, whose palsied hand fumbled over her\nknitting. The early evening had closed in, and the farm-servants,\ncome from their outdoor work, had assembled in the ample hall,\nwhich gave space for a score or more of workers. Several of the\nmen were engaged in carving, and to these were yielded the best\nplace and light; others made or repaired fishing-tackle and\nharness, and a great seine net occupied three pairs of hands. Of\nthe women most were sorting and mixing eider feather and chopping\nstraw to add to it. Looms were there, though not in present use,\nbut three wheels whirred emulously, and the finest and swiftest\nthread of the three ran between the fingers of the house-mistress.\nNear her were some children, busy too, plaiting wicks for candles\nand lamps. Each group of workers had a lamp in its centre, and\nthose farthest from the fire had live heat from two braziers\nfilled with glowing wood embers, replenished now and again from\nthe generous hearth. But the flicker of the great fire was\nmanifest to remotest corners, and prevailed beyond the limits of\nthe weaker lights.\n\nLittle Rol grew tired of his puppy, dropped it incontinently, and\nmade an onslaught on Tyr, the old wolf-hound, who basked dozing,\nwhimpering and twitching in his hunting dreams. Prone went Rol\nbeside Tyr, his young arms round the shaggy neck, his curls\nagainst the black jowl. Tyr gave a perfunctory lick, and stretched\nwith a sleepy sigh. Rol growled and rolled and shoved invitingly,\nbut could only gain from the old dog placid toleration and a\nhalf-observant blink. \"Take that then!\" said Rol, indignant at this\nignoring of his advances, and sent the puppy sprawling against the\ndignity that disdained him as playmate. The dog took no notice,\nand the child wandered off to find amusement elsewhere.\n\nThe baskets of white eider feathers caught his eye far off in a\ndistant corner. He slipped under the table, and crept along on\nall-fours, the ordinary common-place custom of walking down a room\nupright not being to his fancy. When close to the women he lay\nstill for a moment watching, with his elbows on the floor and his\nchin in his palms. One of the women seeing him nodded and smiled,\nand presently he crept out behind her skirts and passed, hardly\nnoticed, from one to another, till he found opportunity to possess\nhimself of a large handful of feathers. With these he traversed\nthe length of the room, under the table again, and emerged near\nthe spinners. At the feet of the youngest he curled himself round,\nsheltered by her knees from the observation of the others, and\ndisarmed her of interference by secretly displaying his handful\nwith a confiding smile. A dubious nod satisfied him, and presently\nhe started on the play he had devised. He took a tuft of the white\ndown, and gently shook it free of his fingers close to the whirl\nof the wheel. The wind of the swift motion took it, spun it round\nand round in widening circles, till it floated above like a slow\nwhite moth. Little Rol's eyes danced, and the row of his small\nteeth shone in a silent laugh of delight. Another and another of\nthe white tufts was sent whirling round like a winged thing in a\nspider's web, and floating clear at last. Presently the handful\nfailed.\n\nRol sprawled forward to survey the room, and contemplate another\njourney under the table. His shoulder, thrusting forward, checked\nthe wheel for an instant; he shifted hastily. The wheel flew on\nwith a jerk, and the thread snapped. \"Naughty Rol!\" said the girl.\nThe swiftest wheel stopped also, and the house-mistress, Rol's\naunt, leaned forward, and sighting the low curly head, gave a\nwarning against mischief, and sent him off to old Trella's corner.\n\nRol obeyed, and after a discreet period of obedience, sidled out\nagain down the length of the room farthest from his aunt's eye. As\nhe slipped in among the men, they looked up to see that their\ntools might be, as far as possible, out of reach of Rol's hands,\nand close to their own. Nevertheless, before long he managed to\nsecure a fine chisel and take off its point on the leg of the\ntable. The carver's strong objections to this disconcerted Rol,\nwho for five minutes thereafter effaced himself under the table.\n\nDuring this seclusion he contemplated the many pairs of legs that\nsurrounded him, and almost shut out the light of the fire. How\nvery odd some of the legs were: some were curved where they should\nbe straight, some were straight where they should be curved, and,\nas Rol said to himself, \"they all seemed screwed on differently.\"\nSome were tucked away modestly under the benches, others were\nthrust far out under the table, encroaching on Rol's own\nparticular domain. He stretched out his own short legs and\nregarded them critically, and, after comparison, favourably. Why\nwere not all legs made like his, or like _his_?\n\nThese legs approved by Rol were a little apart from the rest. He\ncrawled opposite and again made comparison. His face grew quite\nsolemn as he thought of the innumerable days to come before his\nlegs could be as long and strong. He hoped they would be just like\nthose, his models, as straight as to bone, as curved as to muscle.\n\nA few moments later Sweyn of the long legs felt a small hand\ncaressing his foot, and looking down, met the upturned eyes of his\nlittle cousin Rol. Lying on his back, still softly patting and\nstroking the young man's foot, the child was quiet and happy for a\ngood while. He watched the movement of the strong deft hands, and\nthe shifting of the bright tools. Now and then, minute chips of\nwood, puffed off by Sweyn, fell down upon his face. At last he\nraised himself, very gently, lest a jog should wake impatience in\nthe carver, and crossing his own legs round Sweyn's ankle,\nclasping with his arms too, laid his head against the knee. Such\nact is evidence of a child's most wonderful hero-worship. Quite\ncontent was Rol, and more than content when Sweyn paused a minute\nto joke, and pat his head and pull his curls. Quiet he remained,\nas long as quiescence is possible to limbs young as his. Sweyn\nforgot he was near, hardly noticed when his leg was gently\nreleased, and never saw the stealthy abstraction of one of his\ntools.\n\n[Illustration: Rol's Worship]\n\nTen minutes thereafter was a lamentable wail from low on the\nfloor, rising to the full pitch of Rol's healthy lungs; for his\nhand was gashed across, and the copious bleeding terrified him.\nThen was there soothing and comforting, washing and binding, and a\nmodicum of scolding, till the loud outcry sank into occasional\nsobs, and the child, tear-stained and subdued, was returned to the\nchimney-corner settle, where Trella nodded.\n\nIn the reaction after pain and fright, Rol found that the quiet of\nthat fire-lit corner was to his mind. Tyr, too, disdained him no\nlonger, but, roused by his sobs, showed all the concern and\nsympathy that a dog can by licking and wistful watching. A little\nshame weighed also upon his spirits. He wished he had not cried\nquite so much. He remembered how once Sweyn had come home with his\narm torn down from the shoulder, and a dead bear; and how he had\nnever winced nor said a word, though his lips turned white with\npain. Poor little Rol gave another sighing sob over his own\nfaint-hearted shortcomings.\n\nThe light and motion of the great fire began to tell strange\nstories to the child, and the wind in the chimney roared a\ncorroborative note now and then. The great black mouth of the\nchimney, impending high over the hearth, received as into a\nmysterious gulf murky coils of smoke and brightness of aspiring\nsparks; and beyond, in the high darkness, were muttering and\nwailing and strange doings, so that sometimes the smoke rushed\nback in panic, and curled out and up to the roof, and condensed\nitself to invisibility among the rafters. And then the wind would\nrage after its lost prey, and rush round the house, rattling and\nshrieking at window and door.\n\nIn a lull, after one such loud gust, Rol lifted his head in\nsurprise and listened. A lull had also come on the babel of talk,\nand thus could be heard with strange distinctness a sound outside\nthe door--the sound of a child's voice, a child's hands. \"Open,\nopen; let me in!\" piped the little voice from low down, lower than\nthe handle, and the latch rattled as though a tiptoe child reached\nup to it, and soft small knocks were struck. One near the door\nsprang up and opened it. \"No one is here,\" he said. Tyr lifted his\nhead and gave utterance to a howl, loud, prolonged, most dismal.\n\nSweyn, not able to believe that his ears had deceived him, got up\nand went to the door. It was a dark night; the clouds were heavy\nwith snow, that had fallen fitfully when the wind lulled.\nUntrodden snow lay up to the porch; there was no sight nor sound\nof any human being. Sweyn strained his eyes far and near, only to\nsee dark sky, pure snow, and a line of black fir trees on a hill\nbrow, bowing down before the wind. \"It must have been the wind,\"\nhe said, and closed the door.\n\nMany faces looked scared. The sound of a child's voice had been so\ndistinct--and the words \"Open, open; let me in!\" The wind might\ncreak the wood, or rattle the latch, but could not speak with a\nchild's voice, nor knock with the soft plain blows that a plump\nfist gives. And the strange unusual howl of the wolf-hound was an\nomen to be feared, be the rest what it might. Strange things were\nsaid by one and another, till the rebuke of the house-mistress\nquelled them into far-off whispers. For a time after there was\nuneasiness, constraint, and silence; then the chill fear thawed by\ndegrees, and the babble of talk flowed on again.\n\nYet half-an-hour later a very slight noise outside the door\nsufficed to arrest every hand, every tongue. Every head was\nraised, every eye fixed in one direction. \"It is Christian; he is\nlate,\" said Sweyn.\n\nNo, no; this is a feeble shuffle, not a young man's tread. With\nthe sound of uncertain feet came the hard tap-tap of a stick\nagainst the door, and the high-pitched voice of eld, \"Open, open;\nlet me in!\" Again Tyr flung up his head in a long doleful howl.\n\nBefore the echo of the tapping stick and the high voice had fairly\ndied away, Sweyn had sprung across to the door and flung it wide.\n\"No one again,\" he said in a steady voice, though his eyes looked\nstartled as he stared out. He saw the lonely expanse of snow, the\nclouds swagging low, and between the two the line of dark\nfir-trees bowing in the wind. He closed the door without a word of\ncomment, and re-crossed the room.\n\nA score of blanched faces were turned to him as though he must be\nsolver of the enigma. He could not be unconscious of this mute\neye-questioning, and it disturbed his resolute air of composure.\nHe hesitated, glanced towards his mother, the house-mistress, then\nback at the frightened folk, and gravely, before them all, made\nthe sign of the cross. There was a flutter of hands as the sign\nwas repeated by all, and the dead silence was stirred as by a huge\nsigh, for the held breath of many was freed as though the sign\ngave magic relief.\n\nEven the house-mistress was perturbed. She left her wheel and\ncrossed the room to her son, and spoke with him for a moment in a\nlow tone that none could overhear. But a moment later her voice\nwas high-pitched and loud, so that all might benefit by her rebuke\nof the \"heathen chatter\" of one of the girls. Perhaps she essayed\nto silence thus her own misgivings and forebodings.\n\nNo other voice dared speak now with its natural fulness. Low tones\nmade intermittent murmurs, and now and then silence drifted over\nthe whole room. The handling of tools was as noiseless as might\nbe, and suspended on the instant if the door rattled in a gust of\nwind. After a time Sweyn left his work, joined the group nearest\nthe door, and loitered there on the pretence of giving advice and\nhelp to the unskilful.\n\nA man's tread was heard outside in the porch. \"Christian!\" said\nSweyn and his mother simultaneously, he confidently, she\nauthoritatively, to set the checked wheels going again. But Tyr\nflung up his head with an appalling howl.\n\n\"Open, open; let me in!\"\n\nIt was a man's voice, and the door shook and rattled as a man's\nstrength beat against it. Sweyn could feel the planks quivering,\nas on the instant his hand was upon the door, flinging it open, to\nface the blank porch, and beyond only snow and sky, and firs\naslant in the wind.\n\nHe stood for a long minute with the open door in his hand. The\nbitter wind swept in with its icy chill, but a deadlier chill of\nfear came swifter, and seemed to freeze the beating of hearts.\nSweyn stepped back to snatch up a great bearskin cloak.\n\n\"Sweyn, where are you going?\"\n\n\"No farther than the porch, mother,\" and he stepped out and closed\nthe door.\n\nHe wrapped himself in the heavy fur, and leaning against the most\nsheltered wall of the porch, steeled his nerves to face the devil\nand all his works. No sound of voices came from within; the most\ndistinct sound was the crackle and roar of the fire.\n\nIt was bitterly cold. His feet grew numb, but he forbore stamping\nthem into warmth lest the sound should strike panic within; nor\nwould he leave the porch, nor print a foot-mark on the untrodden\nwhite that declared so absolutely how no human voices and hands\ncould have approached the door since snow fell two hours or more\nago. \"When the wind drops there will be more snow,\" thought Sweyn.\n\nFor the best part of an hour he kept his watch, and saw no living\nthing--heard no unwonted sound. \"I will freeze here no longer,\" he\nmuttered, and re-entered.\n\nOne woman gave a half-suppressed scream as his hand was laid on\nthe latch, and then a gasp of relief as he came in. No one\nquestioned him, only his mother said, in a tone of forced\nunconcern, \"Could you not see Christian coming?\" as though she\nwere made anxious only by the absence of her younger son. Hardly\nhad Sweyn stamped near to the fire than clear knocking was heard\nat the door. Tyr leapt from the hearth, his eyes red as the fire,\nhis fangs showing white in the black jowl, his neck ridged and\nbristling; and overleaping Rol, ramped at the door, barking\nfuriously.\n\nOutside the door a clear mellow voice was calling. Tyr's bark made\nthe words undistinguishable.\n\nNo one offered to stir towards the door before Sweyn.\n\nHe stalked down the room resolutely, lifted the latch, and swung\nback the door.\n\nA white-robed woman glided in.\n\nNo wraith! Living--beautiful--young.\n\nTyr leapt upon her.\n\nLithely she baulked the sharp fangs with folds of her long fur\nrobe, and snatching from her girdle a small two-edged axe, whirled\nit up for a blow of defence.\n\nSweyn caught the dog by the collar, and dragged him off yelling\nand struggling.\n\nThe stranger stood in the doorway motionless, one foot set\nforward, one arm flung up, till the house-mistress hurried down\nthe room; and Sweyn, relinquishing to others the furious Tyr,\nturned again to close the door, and offer excuse for so fierce a\ngreeting. Then she lowered her arm, slung the axe in its place at\nher waist, loosened the furs about her face, and shook over her\nshoulders the long white robe--all as it were with the sway of one\nmovement.\n\nShe was a maiden, tall and very fair. The fashion of her dress was\nstrange, half masculine, yet not unwomanly. A fine fur tunic,\nreaching but little below the knee, was all the skirt she wore;\nbelow were the cross-bound shoes and leggings that a hunter wears.\nA white fur cap was set low upon the brows, and from its edge\nstrips of fur fell lappet-wise about her shoulders; two of these\nat her entrance had been drawn forward and crossed about her\nthroat, but now, loosened and thrust back, left unhidden long\nplaits of fair hair that lay forward on shoulder and breast, down\nto the ivory-studded girdle where the axe gleamed.\n\nSweyn and his mother led the stranger to the hearth without\nquestion or sign of curiosity, till she voluntarily told her tale\nof a long journey to distant kindred, a promised guide unmet, and\nsignals and landmarks mistaken.\n\n\"Alone!\" exclaimed Sweyn in astonishment. \"Have you journeyed thus\nfar, a hundred leagues, alone?\"\n\nShe answered \"Yes\" with a little smile.\n\n\"Over the hills and the wastes! Why, the folk there are savage and\nwild as beasts.\"\n\nShe dropped her hand upon her axe with a laugh of some scorn.\n\n\"I fear neither man nor beast; some few fear me.\" And then she\ntold strange tales of fierce attack and defence, and of the bold\nfree huntress life she had led.\n\nHer words came a little slowly and deliberately, as though she\nspoke in a scarce familiar tongue; now and then she hesitated, and\nstopped in a phrase, as though for lack of some word.\n\nShe became the centre of a group of listeners. The interest she\nexcited dissipated, in some degree, the dread inspired by the\nmysterious voices. There was nothing ominous about this young,\nbright, fair reality, though her aspect was strange.\n\nLittle Rol crept near, staring at the stranger with all his might.\nUnnoticed, he softly stroked and patted a corner of her soft white\nrobe that reached to the floor in ample folds. He laid his cheek\nagainst it caressingly, and then edged up close to her knees.\n\n\"What is your name?\" he asked.\n\nThe stranger's smile and ready answer, as she looked down, saved\nRol from the rebuke merited by his unmannerly question.\n\n\"My real name,\" she said, \"would be uncouth to your ears and\ntongue. The folk of this country have given me another name, and\nfrom this\" (she laid her hand on the fur robe) \"they call me\n'White Fell.'\"\n\nLittle Rol repeated it to himself, stroking and patting as before.\n\"White Fell, White Fell.\"\n\nThe fair face, and soft, beautiful dress pleased Rol. He knelt up,\nwith his eyes on her face and an air of uncertain determination,\nlike a robin's on a doorstep, and plumped his elbows into her lap\nwith a little gasp at his own audacity.\n\n\"Rol!\" exclaimed his aunt; but, \"Oh, let him!\" said White Fell,\nsmiling and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.\n\nHe advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the\nface of his aunt's authority, climbed up on to her knees. Her\nwelcoming arms hindered any protest. He nestled happily, fingering\nthe axe head, the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at\nher throat, the plaits of fair hair; rubbing his head against the\nsoftness of her fur-clad shoulder, with a child's full confidence\nin the kindness of beauty.\n\nWhite Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant\nfur loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it,\nwhispering her name to himself, \"White Fell, White Fell,\" then\nslid his arms round her neck, and kissed her--once--twice. She\nlaughed delightedly, and kissed him again.\n\n\"The child plagues you?\" said Sweyn.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to\nseem disproportionate to the occasion.\n\nRol settled himself again on her lap, and began to unwind the\nbandage bound round his hand. He paused a little when he saw where\nthe blood had soaked through; then went on till his hand was bare\nand the cut displayed, gaping and long, though only skin deep. He\nheld it up towards White Fell, desirous of her pity and sympathy.\n\nAt sight of it, and the blood-stained linen, she drew in her\nbreath suddenly, clasped Rol to her--hard, hard--till he began to\nstruggle. Her face was hidden behind the boy, so that none could\nsee its expression. It had lighted up with a most awful glee.\n\nAfar, beyond the fir-grove, beyond the low hill behind, the absent\nChristian was hastening his return. From daybreak he had been\nafoot, carrying notice of a bear hunt to all the best hunters of\nthe farms and hamlets that lay within a radius of twelve miles.\nNevertheless, having been detained till a late hour, he now broke\ninto a run, going with a long smooth stride of apparent ease that\nfast made the miles diminish.\n\nHe entered the midnight blackness of the fir-grove with scarcely\nslackened pace, though the path was invisible; and passing through\ninto the open again, sighted the farm lying a furlong off down the\nslope. Then he sprang out freely, and almost on the instant gave\none great sideways leap, and stood still. There in the snow was\nthe track of a great wolf.\n\nHis hand went to his knife, his only weapon. He stooped, knelt\ndown, to bring his eyes to the level of a beast, and peered about;\nhis teeth set, his heart beat a little harder than the pace of his\nrunning insisted on. A solitary wolf, nearly always savage and of\nlarge size, is a formidable beast that will not hesitate to attack\na single man. This wolf-track was the largest Christian had ever\nseen, and, so far as he could judge, recently made. It led from\nunder the fir-trees down the slope. Well for him, he thought, was\nthe delay that had so vexed him before: well for him that he had\nnot passed through the dark fir-grove when that danger of jaws\nlurked there. Going warily, he followed the track.\n\nIt led down the slope, across a broad ice-bound stream, along the\nlevel beyond, making towards the farm. A less precise knowledge\nhad doubted, and guessed that here might have come straying big\nTyr or his like; but Christian was sure, knowing better than to\nmistake between footmark of dog and wolf.\n\nStraight on--straight on towards the farm.\n\nSurprised and anxious grew Christian, that a prowling wolf should\ndare so near. He drew his knife and pressed on, more hastily, more\nkeen-eyed. Oh that Tyr were with him!\n\nStraight on, straight on, even to the very door, where the snow\nfailed. His heart seemed to give a great leap and then stop. There\nthe track _ended_.\n\nNothing lurked in the porch, and there was no sign of return. The\nfirs stood straight against the sky, the clouds lay low; for the\nwind had fallen and a few snowflakes came drifting down. In a\nhorror of surprise, Christian stood dazed a moment: then he lifted\nthe latch and went in. His glance took in all the old familiar\nforms and faces, and with them that of the stranger, fur-clad and\nbeautiful. The awful truth flashed upon him: he knew what she was.\n\nOnly a few were startled by the rattle of the latch as he entered.\nThe room was filled with bustle and movement, for it was the\nsupper hour, when all tools were laid aside, and trestles and\ntables shifted. Christian had no knowledge of what he said and\ndid; he moved and spoke mechanically, half thinking that soon he\nmust wake from this horrible dream. Sweyn and his mother supposed\nhim to be cold and dead-tired, and spared all unnecessary\nquestions. And he found himself seated beside the hearth, opposite\nthat dreadful Thing that looked like a beautiful girl; watching\nher every movement, curdling with horror to see her fondle the\nchild Rol.\n\nSweyn stood near them both, intent upon White Fell also; but how\ndifferently! She seemed unconscious of the gaze of both--neither\naware of the chill dread in the eyes of Christian, nor of Sweyn's\nwarm admiration.\n\nThese two brothers, who were twins, contrasted greatly, despite\ntheir striking likeness. They were alike in regular profile, fair\nbrown hair, and deep blue eyes; but Sweyn's features were perfect\nas a young god's, while Christian's showed faulty details. Thus,\nthe line of his mouth was set too straight, the eyes shelved too\ndeeply back, and the contour of the face flowed in less generous\ncurves than Sweyn's. Their height was the same, but Christian was\ntoo slender for perfect proportion, while Sweyn's well-knit frame,\nbroad shoulders, and muscular arms, made him pre-eminent for manly\nbeauty as well as for strength. As a hunter Sweyn was without\nrival; as a fisher without rival. All the countryside acknowledged\nhim to be the best wrestler, rider, dancer, singer. Only in speed\ncould he be surpassed, and in that only by his younger brother.\nAll others Sweyn could distance fairly; but Christian could outrun\nhim easily. Ay, he could keep pace with Sweyn's most breathless\nburst, and laugh and talk the while. Christian took little pride\nin his fleetness of foot, counting a man's legs to be the least\nworthy of his members. He had no envy of his brother's athletic\nsuperiority, though to several feats he had made a moderate\nsecond. He loved as only a twin can love--proud of all that Sweyn\ndid, content with all that Sweyn was; humbly content also that his\nown great love should not be so exceedingly returned, since he\nknew himself to be so far less love-worthy.\n\nChristian dared not, in the midst of women and children, launch\nthe horror that he knew into words. He waited to consult his\nbrother; but Sweyn did not, or would not, notice the signal he\nmade, and kept his face always turned towards White Fell.\nChristian drew away from the hearth, unable to remain passive with\nthat dread upon him.\n\n\"Where is Tyr?\" he said suddenly. Then, catching sight of the dog\nin a distant corner, \"Why is he chained there?\"\n\n\"He flew at the stranger,\" one answered.\n\nChristian's eyes glowed. \"Yes?\" he said, interrogatively.\n\n\"He was within an ace of having his brain knocked out.\"\n\n\"Tyr?\"\n\n\"Yes; she was nimbly up with that little axe she has at her waist.\nIt was well for old Tyr that his master throttled him off.\"\n\nChristian went without a word to the corner where Tyr was chained.\nThe dog rose up to meet him, as piteous and indignant as a dumb\nbeast can be. He stroked the black head. \"Good Tyr! brave dog!\"\n\nThey knew, they only; and the man and the dumb dog had comfort of\neach other.\n\nChristian's eyes turned again towards White Fell: Tyr's also, and\nhe strained against the length of the chain. Christian's hand lay\non the dog's neck, and he felt it ridge and bristle with the\nquivering of impotent fury. Then he began to quiver in like\nmanner, with a fury born of reason, not instinct; as impotent\nmorally as was Tyr physically. Oh! the woman's form that he dare\nnot touch! Anything but that, and he with Tyr would be free to\nkill or be killed.\n\nThen he returned to ask fresh questions.\n\n\"How long has the stranger been here?\"\n\n\"She came about half-an-hour before you.\"\n\n\"Who opened the door to her?\"\n\n\"Sweyn: no one else dared.\"\n\nThe tone of the answer was mysterious.\n\n\"Why?\" queried Christian. \"Has anything strange happened? Tell\nme.\"\n\nFor answer he was told in a low undertone of the summons at the\ndoor thrice repeated without human agency; and of Tyr's ominous\nhowls; and of Sweyn's fruitless watch outside.\n\nChristian turned towards his brother in a torment of impatience\nfor a word apart. The board was spread, and Sweyn was leading\nWhite Fell to the guest's place. This was more awful: she would\nbreak bread with them under the roof-tree!\n\nHe started forward, and touching Sweyn's arm, whispered an urgent\nentreaty. Sweyn stared, and shook his head in angry impatience.\n\nThereupon Christian would take no morsel of food.\n\nHis opportunity came at last. White Fell questioned of the\nlandmarks of the country, and of one Cairn Hill, which was an\nappointed meeting-place at which she was due that night. The\nhouse-mistress and Sweyn both exclaimed.\n\n\"It is three long miles away,\" said Sweyn; \"with no place for\nshelter but a wretched hut. Stay with us this night, and I will\nshow you the way to-morrow.\"\n\nWhite Fell seemed to hesitate. \"Three miles,\" she said; \"then I\nshould be able to see or hear a signal.\"\n\n\"I will look out,\" said Sweyn; \"then, if there be no signal, you\nmust not leave us.\"\n\nHe went to the door. Christian rose silently, and followed him\nout.\n\n\"Sweyn, do you know what she is?\"\n\nSweyn, surprised at the vehement grasp, and low hoarse voice, made\nanswer:\n\n\"She? Who? White Fell?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.\"\n\n\"She is a Were-Wolf.\"\n\nSweyn burst out laughing. \"Are you mad?\" he asked.\n\n\"No; here, see for yourself.\"\n\nChristian drew him out of the porch, pointing to the snow where\nthe footmarks had been. Had been, for now they were not. Snow was\nfalling fast, and every dint was blotted out.\n\n\"Well?\" asked Sweyn.\n\n\"Had you come when I signed to you, you would have seen for\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Seen what?\"\n\n\"The footprints of a wolf leading up to the door; none leading\naway.\"\n\nIt was impossible not to be startled by the tone alone, though it\nwas hardly above a whisper. Sweyn eyed his brother anxiously, but\nin the darkness could make nothing of his face. Then he laid his\nhands kindly and re-assuringly on Christian's shoulders and felt\nhow he was quivering with excitement and horror.\n\n\"One sees strange things,\" he said, \"when the cold has got into\nthe brain behind the eyes; you came in cold and worn out.\"\n\n\"No,\" interrupted Christian. \"I saw the track first on the brow of\nthe slope, and followed it down right here to the door. This is no\ndelusion.\"\n\nSweyn in his heart felt positive that it was. Christian was given\nto day-dreams and strange fancies, though never had he been\npossessed with so mad a notion before.\n\n\"Don't you believe me?\" said Christian desperately. \"You must. I\nswear it is sane truth. Are you blind? Why, even Tyr knows.\"\n\n\"You will be clearer headed to-morrow after a night's rest. Then\ncome too, if you will, with White Fell, to the Hill Cairn; and if\nyou have doubts still, watch and follow, and see what footprints\nshe leaves.\"\n\nGalled by Sweyn's evident contempt Christian turned abruptly to\nthe door. Sweyn caught him back.\n\n\"What now, Christian? What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"You do not believe me; my mother shall.\"\n\nSweyn's grasp tightened. \"You shall not tell her,\" he said\nauthoritatively.\n\nCustomarily Christian was so docile to his brother's mastery that\nit was now a surprising thing when he wrenched himself free\nvigorously, and said as determinedly as Sweyn, \"She shall know!\"\nbut Sweyn was nearer the door and would not let him pass.\n\n\"There has been scare enough for one night already. If this notion\nof yours will keep, broach it to-morrow.\" Christian would not\nyield.\n\n\"Women are so easily scared,\" pursued Sweyn, \"and are ready to\nbelieve any folly without shadow of proof. Be a man, Christian,\nand fight this notion of a Were-Wolf by yourself.\"\n\n\"If you would believe me,\" began Christian.\n\n\"I believe you to be a fool,\" said Sweyn, losing patience.\n\"Another, who was not your brother, might believe you to be a\nknave, and guess that you had transformed White Fell into a\nWere-Wolf because she smiled more readily on me than on you.\"\n\nThe jest was not without foundation, for the grace of White Fell's\nbright looks had been bestowed on him, on Christian never a whit.\nSweyn's coxcombery was always frank, and most forgiveable, and not\nwithout fair colour.\n\n\"If you want an ally,\" continued Sweyn, \"confide in old Trella.\nOut of her stores of wisdom, if her memory holds good, she can\ninstruct you in the orthodox manner of tackling a Were-Wolf. If I\nremember aright, you should watch the suspected person till\nmidnight, when the beast's form must be resumed, and retained ever\nafter if a human eye sees the change; or, better still, sprinkle\nhands and feet with holy water, which is certain death. Oh! never\nfear, but old Trella will be equal to the occasion.\"\n\nSweyn's contempt was no longer good-humoured; some touch of\nirritation or resentment rose at this monstrous doubt of White\nFell. But Christian was too deeply distressed to take offence.\n\n\"You speak of them as old wives' tales; but if you had seen the\nproof I have seen, you would be ready at least to wish them true,\nif not also to put them to the test.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sweyn, with a laugh that had a little sneer in it,\n\"put them to the test! I will not object to that, if you will only\nkeep your notions to yourself. Now, Christian, give me your word\nfor silence, and we will freeze here no longer.\"\n\nChristian remained silent.\n\nSweyn put his hands on his shoulders again and vainly tried to see\nhis face in the darkness.\n\n\"We have never quarrelled yet, Christian?\"\n\n\"I have never quarrelled,\" returned the other, aware for the first\ntime that his dictatorial brother had sometimes offered occasion\nfor quarrel, had he been ready to take it.\n\n\"Well,\" said Sweyn emphatically, \"if you speak against White Fell\nto any other, as to-night you have spoken to me--we shall.\"\n\nHe delivered the words like an ultimatum, turned sharp round, and\nre-entered the house. Christian, more fearful and wretched than\nbefore, followed.\n\n\"Snow is falling fast: not a single light is to be seen.\"\n\nWhite Fell's eyes passed over Christian without apparent notice,\nand turned bright and shining upon Sweyn.\n\n\"Nor any signal to be heard?\" she queried. \"Did you not hear the\nsound of a sea-horn?\"\n\n\"I saw nothing, and heard nothing; and signal or no signal, the\nheavy snow would keep you here perforce.\"\n\nShe smiled her thanks beautifully. And Christian's heart sank like\nlead with a deadly foreboding, as he noted what a light was\nkindled in Sweyn's eyes by her smile.\n\nThat night, when all others slept, Christian, the weariest of all,\nwatched outside the guest-chamber till midnight was past. No\nsound, not the faintest, could be heard. Could the old tale be\ntrue of the midnight change? What was on the other side of the\ndoor, a woman or a beast? he would have given his right hand to\nknow. Instinctively he laid his hand on the latch, and drew it\nsoftly, though believing that bolts fastened the inner side. The\ndoor yielded to his hand; he stood on the threshold; a keen gust\nof air cut at him; the window stood open; the room was empty.\n\nSo Christian could sleep with a somewhat lightened heart.\n\nIn the morning there was surprise and conjecture when White Fell's\nabsence was discovered. Christian held his peace. Not even to his\nbrother did he say how he knew that she had fled before midnight;\nand Sweyn, though evidently greatly chagrined, seemed to disdain\nreference to the subject of Christian's fears.\n\nThe elder brother alone joined the bear hunt; Christian found\npretext to stay behind. Sweyn, being out of humour, manifested his\ncontempt by uttering not a single expostulation.\n\nAll that day, and for many a day after, Christian would never go\nout of sight of his home. Sweyn alone noticed how he manoeuvred for\nthis, and was clearly annoyed by it. White Fell's name was never\nmentioned between them, though not seldom was it heard in general\ntalk. Hardly a day passed but little Rol asked when White Fell\nwould come again: pretty White Fell, who kissed like a snowflake.\nAnd if Sweyn answered, Christian would be quite sure that the\nlight in his eyes, kindled by White Fell's smile, had not yet died\nout.\n\nLittle Rol! Naughty, merry, fairhaired little Rol. A day came when\nhis feet raced over the threshold never to return; when his\nchatter and laugh were heard no more; when tears of anguish were\nwept by eyes that never would see his bright head again: never\nagain, living or dead.\n\nHe was seen at dusk for the last time, escaping from the house\nwith his puppy, in freakish rebellion against old Trella. Later,\nwhen his absence had begun to cause anxiety, his puppy crept back\nto the farm, cowed, whimpering and yelping, a pitiful, dumb lump\nof terror, without intelligence or courage to guide the frightened\nsearch.\n\nRol was never found, nor any trace of him. Where he had perished\nwas never known; how he had perished was known only by an awful\nguess--a wild beast had devoured him.\n\nChristian heard the conjecture \"a wolf\"; and a horrible certainty\nflashed upon him that he knew what wolf it was. He tried to\ndeclare what he knew, but Sweyn saw him start at the words with\nwhite face and struggling lips; and, guessing his purpose, pulled\nhim back, and kept him silent, hardly, by his imperious grip and\nwrathful eyes, and one low whisper.\n\nThat Christian should retain his most irrational suspicion against\nbeautiful White Fell was, to Sweyn, evidence of a weak obstinacy\nof mind that would but thrive upon expostulation and argument. But\nthis evident intention to direct the passions of grief and anguish\nto a hatred and fear of the fair stranger, such as his own, was\nintolerable, and Sweyn set his will against it. Again Christian\nyielded to his brother's stronger words and will, and against his\nown judgment consented to silence.\n\nRepentance came before the new moon, the first of the year, was\nold. White Fell came again, smiling as she entered, as though\nassured of a glad and kindly welcome; and, in truth, there was\nonly one who saw again her fair face and strange white garb\nwithout pleasure. Sweyn's face glowed with delight, while\nChristian's grew pale and rigid as death. He had given his word to\nkeep silence; but he had not thought that she would dare to come\nagain. Silence was impossible, face to face with that Thing,\nimpossible. Irrepressibly he cried out:\n\n\"Where is Rol?\"\n\nNot a quiver disturbed White Fell's face. She heard, yet remained\nbright and tranquil. Sweyn's eyes flashed round at his brother\ndangerously. Among the women some tears fell at the poor child's\nname; but none caught alarm from its sudden utterance, for the\nthought of Rol rose naturally. Where was little Rol, who had\nnestled in the stranger's arms, kissing her; and watched for her\nsince; and prattled of her daily?\n\nChristian went out silently. One only thing there was that he\ncould do, and he must not delay. His horror overmastered any\ncuriosity to hear White Fell's smooth excuses and smiling\napologies for her strange and uncourteous departure; or her easy\ntale of the circumstances of her return; or to watch her bearing\nas she heard the sad tale of little Rol.\n\nThe swiftest runner of the country-side had started on his hardest\nrace: little less than three leagues and back, which he reckoned\nto accomplish in two hours, though the night was moonless and the\nway rugged. He rushed against the still cold air till it felt like\na wind upon his face. The dim homestead sank below the ridges at\nhis back, and fresh ridges of snowlands rose out of the obscure\nhorizon-level to drive past him as the stirless air drove, and\nsink away behind into obscure level again. He took no conscious\nheed of landmarks, not even when all sign of a path was gone under\ndepths of snow. His will was set to reach his goal with unexampled\nspeed; and thither by instinct his physical forces bore him,\nwithout one definite thought to guide.\n\nAnd the idle brain lay passive, inert, receiving into its vacancy\nrestless siftings of past sights and sounds: Rol, weeping,\nlaughing, playing, coiled in the arms of that dreadful Thing:\nTyr--O Tyr!--white fangs in the black jowl: the women who wept on\nThe foolish puppy, precious for the child's last touch: footprints\nfrom pine wood to door: the smiling face among furs, of such\nwomanly beauty--smiling--smiling: and Sweyn's face.\n\n\"Sweyn, Sweyn, O Sweyn, my brother!\"\n\nSweyn's angry laugh possessed his ear within the sound of the wind\nof his speed; Sweyn's scorn assailed more quick and keen than the\nbiting cold at his throat. And yet he was unimpressed by any\nthought of how Sweyn's anger and scorn would rise, if this errand\nwere known.\n\nSweyn was a sceptic. His utter disbelief in Christian's testimony\nregarding the footprints was based upon positive scepticism. His\nreason refused to bend in accepting the possibility of the\nsupernatural materialised. That a living beast could ever be other\nthan palpably bestial--pawed, toothed, shagged, and eared as such,\nwas to him incredible; far more that a human presence could be\ntransformed from its god-like aspect, upright, free-handed, with\nbrows, and speech, and laughter. The wild and fearful legends that\nhe had known from childhood and then believed, he regarded now as\nbuilt upon facts distorted, overlaid by imagination, and quickened\nby superstition. Even the strange summons at the threshold, that\nhe himself had vainly answered, was, after the first shock of\nsurprise, rationally explained by him as malicious foolery on the\npart of some clever trickster, who withheld the key to the enigma.\n\nTo the younger brother all life was a spiritual mystery, veiled\nfrom his clear knowledge by the density of flesh. Since he knew\nhis own body to be linked to the complex and antagonistic forces\nthat constitute one soul, it seemed to him not impossibly strange\nthat one spiritual force should possess divers forms for widely\nvarious manifestation. Nor, to him, was it great effort to believe\nthat as pure water washes away all natural foulness, so water,\nholy by consecration, must needs cleanse God's world from that\nsupernatural evil Thing. Therefore, faster than ever man's foot\nhad covered those leagues, he sped under the dark, still night,\nover the waste, trackless snow-ridges to the far-away church,\nwhere salvation lay in the holy-water stoup at the door. His faith\nwas as firm as any that wrought miracles in days past, simple as a\nchild's wish, strong as a man's will.\n\nHe was hardly missed during these hours, every second of which was\nby him fulfilled to its utmost extent by extremest effort that\nsinews and nerves could attain. Within the homestead the while,\nthe easy moments went bright with words and looks of unwonted\nanimation, for the kindly, hospitable instincts of the inmates\nwere roused into cordial expression of welcome and interest by the\ngrace and beauty of the returned stranger.\n\nBut Sweyn was eager and earnest, with more than a host's courteous\nwarmth. The impression that at her first coming had charmed him,\nthat had lived since through memory, deepened now in her actual\npresence. Sweyn, the matchless among men, acknowledged in this\nfair White Fell a spirit high and bold as his own, and a frame so\nfirm and capable that only bulk was lacking for equal strength.\nYet the white skin was moulded most smoothly, without such\nmuscular swelling as made his might evident. Such love as his\nfrank self-love could concede was called forth by an ardent\nadmiration for this supreme stranger. More admiration than love\nwas in his passion, and therefore he was free from a lover's\nhesitancy and delicate reserve and doubts. Frankly and boldly he\ncourted her favour by looks and tones, and an address that came of\nnatural ease, needless of skill by practice.\n\nNor was she a woman to be wooed otherwise. Tender whispers and\nsighs would never gain her ear; but her eyes would brighten and\nshine if she heard of a brave feat, and her prompt hand in\nsympathy fall swiftly on the axe-haft and clasp it hard. That\nmovement ever fired Sweyn's admiration anew; he watched for it,\nstrove to elicit it, and glowed when it came. Wonderful and\nbeautiful was that wrist, slender and steel-strong; also the\nsmooth shapely hand, that curved so fast and firm, ready to deal\ninstant death.\n\nDesiring to feel the pressure of these hands, this bold lover\nschemed with palpable directness, proposing that she should hear\nhow their hunting songs were sung, with a chorus that signalled\nhands to be clasped. So his splendid voice gave the verses, and,\nas the chorus was taken up, he claimed her hands, and, even\nthrough the easy grip, felt, as he desired, the strength that was\nlatent, and the vigour that quickened the very fingertips, as the\nsong fired her, and her voice was caught out of her by the\nrhythmic swell, and rang clear on the top of the closing surge.\n\nAfterwards she sang alone. For contrast, or in the pride of\nswaying moods by her voice, she chose a mournful song that drifted\nalong in a minor chant, sad as a wind that dirges:\n\n  \"Oh, let me go!\n  Around spin wreaths of snow;\n  The dark earth sleeps below.\n\n  \"Far up the plain\n  Moans on a voice of pain:\n  'Where shall my babe be lain?'\n\n  \"In my white breast\n  Lay the sweet life to rest!\n  Lay, where it can lie best!\n\n  \"'Hush! hush its cries!\n  Dense night is on the skies:\n  Two stars are in thine eyes.'\n\n  \"Come, babe, away!\n  But lie thou till dawn be grey,\n  Who must be dead by day.\n\n  \"This cannot last;\n  But, ere the sickening blast,\n  All sorrow shall be past;\n\n  \"And kings shall be\n  Low bending at thy knee,\n  Worshipping life from thee.\n\n  \"For men long sore\n  To hope of what's before,--\n  To leave the things of yore.\n\n  \"Mine, and not thine,\n  How deep their jewels shine!\n  Peace laps thy head, not mine.\"\n\n\nOld Trella came tottering from her corner, shaken to additional\npalsy by an aroused memory. She strained her dim eyes towards the\nsinger, and then bent her head, that the one ear yet sensible to\nsound might avail of every note. At the close, groping forward,\nshe murmured with the high-pitched quaver of old age:\n\n\"So she sang, my Thora; my last and brightest. What is she like,\nshe whose voice is like my dead Thora's? Are her eyes blue?\"\n\n\"Blue as the sky.\"\n\n\"So were my Thora's! Is her hair fair, and in plaits to the\nwaist?\" \"Even so,\" answered White Fell herself, and met the\nadvancing hands with her own, and guided them to corroborate her\nwords by touch.\n\n\"Like my dead Thora's,\" repeated the old woman; and then her\ntrembling hands rested on the fur-clad shoulders, and she bent\nforward and kissed the smooth fair face that White Fell upturned,\nnothing loth, to receive and return the caress.\n\nSo Christian saw them as he entered.\n\nHe stood a moment. After the starless darkness and the icy night\nair, and the fierce silent two hours' race, his senses reeled on\nsudden entrance into warmth, and light, and the cheery hum of\nvoices. A sudden unforeseen anguish assailed him, as now first he\nentertained the possibility of being overmatched by her wiles and\nher daring, if at the approach of pure death she should start up\nat bay transformed to a terrible beast, and achieve a savage glut\nat the last. He looked with horror and pity on the harmless,\nhelpless folk, so unwitting of outrage to their comfort and\nsecurity. The dreadful Thing in their midst, that was veiled from\ntheir knowledge by womanly beauty, was a centre of pleasant\ninterest. There, before him, signally impressive, was poor old\nTrella, weakest and feeblest of all, in fond nearness. And a\nmoment might bring about the revelation of a monstrous horror--a\nghastly, deadly danger, set loose and at bay, in a circle of girls\nand women and careless defenceless men: so hideous and terrible a\nthing as might crack the brain, or curdle the heart stone dead.\n\nAnd he alone of the throng prepared!\n\n[Illustration: White Fell's Escape]\n\nFor one breathing space he faltered, no longer than that, while\nover him swept the agony of compunction that yet could not make\nhim surrender his purpose.\n\nHe alone? Nay, but Tyr also; and he crossed to the dumb sole\nsharer of his knowledge.\n\nSo timeless is thought that a few seconds only lay between his\nlifting of the latch and his loosening of Tyr's collar; but in\nthose few seconds succeeding his first glance, as lightning-swift\nhad been the impulses of others, their motion as quick and sure.\nSweyn's vigilant eye had darted upon him, and instantly his every\nfibre was alert with hostile instinct; and, half divining, half\nincredulous, of Christian's object in stooping to Tyr, he came\nhastily, wary, wrathful, resolute to oppose the malice of his\nwild-eyed brother.\n\nBut beyond Sweyn rose White Fell, blanching white as her furs, and\nwith eyes grown fierce and wild. She leapt down the room to the\ndoor, whirling her long robe closely to her. \"Hark!\" she panted.\n\"The signal horn! Hark, I must go!\" as she snatched at the latch\nto be out and away.\n\nFor one precious moment Christian had hesitated on the\nhalf-loosened collar; for, except the womanly form were exchanged\nfor the bestial, Tyr's jaws would gnash to rags his honour of\nmanhood. Then he heard her voice, and turned--too late.\n\nAs she tugged at the door, he sprang across grasping his flask,\nbut Sweyn dashed between, and caught him back irresistibly, so\nthat a most frantic effort only availed to wrench one arm free.\nWith that, on the impulse of sheer despair, he cast at her with\nall his force. The door swung behind her, and the flask flew into\nfragments against it. Then, as Sweyn's grasp slackened, and he met\nthe questioning astonishment of surrounding faces, with a hoarse\ninarticulate cry: \"God help us all!\" he said. \"She is a\nWere-Wolf.\"\n\nSweyn turned upon him, \"Liar, coward!\" and his hands gripped his\nbrother's throat with deadly force, as though the spoken word\ncould be killed so; and as Christian struggled, lifted him clear\noff his feet and flung him crashing backward. So furious was he,\nthat, as his brother lay motionless, he stirred him roughly with\nhis foot, till their mother came between, crying shame; and yet\nthen he stood by, his teeth set, his brows knit, his hands\nclenched, ready to enforce silence again violently, as Christian\nrose staggering and bewildered.\n\nBut utter silence and submission were more than he expected, and\nturned his anger into contempt for one so easily cowed and held in\nsubjection by mere force. \"He is mad!\" he said, turning on his\nheel as he spoke, so that he lost his mother's look of pained\nreproach at this sudden free utterance of what was a lurking dread\nwithin her.\n\nChristian was too spent for the effort of speech. His hard-drawn\nbreath laboured in great sobs; his limbs were powerless and\nunstrung in utter relax after hard service. Failure in his\nendeavour induced a stupor of misery and despair. In addition was\nthe wretched humiliation of open violence and strife with his\nbrother, and the distress of hearing misjudging contempt expressed\nwithout reserve; for he was aware that Sweyn had turned to allay\nthe scared excitement half by imperious mastery, half by\nexplanation and argument, that showed painful disregard of\nbrotherly consideration. All this unkindness of his twin he\ncharged upon the fell Thing who had wrought this their first\ndissension, and, ah! most terrible thought, interposed between\nthem so effectually, that Sweyn was wilfully blind and deaf on her\naccount, resentful of interference, arbitrary beyond reason.\n\nDread and perplexity unfathomable darkened upon him; unshared, the\nburden was overwhelming: a foreboding of unspeakable calamity,\nbased upon his ghastly discovery, bore down upon him, crushing out\nhope of power to withstand impending fate.\n\nSweyn the while was observant of his brother, despite the\ncontinual check of finding, turn and glance when he would,\nChristian's eyes always upon him, with a strange look of helpless\ndistress, discomposing enough to the angry aggressor. \"Like a\nbeaten dog!\" he said to himself, rallying contempt to withstand\ncompunction. Observation set him wondering on Christian's\nexhausted condition. The heavy labouring breath and the slack\ninert fall of the limbs told surely of unusual and prolonged\nexertion. And then why had close upon two hours' absence been\nfollowed by open hostility against White Fell?\n\nSuddenly, the fragments of the flask giving a clue, he guessed\nall, and faced about to stare at his brother in amaze. He forgot\nthat the motive scheme was against White Fell, demanding derision\nand resentment from him; that was swept out of remembrance by\nastonishment and admiration for the feat of speed and endurance.\nIn eagerness to question he inclined to attempt a generous part\nand frankly offer to heal the breach; but Christian's depression\nand sad following gaze provoked him to self-justification by\nrecalling the offence of that outrageous utterance against White\nFell; and the impulse passed. Then other considerations counselled\nsilence; and afterwards a humour possessed him to wait and see how\nChristian would find opportunity to proclaim his performance and\nestablish the fact, without exciting ridicule on account of the\nabsurdity of the errand.\n\nThis expectation remained unfulfilled. Christian never attempted\nthe proud avowal that would have placed his feat on record to be\ntold to the next generation.\n\nThat night Sweyn and his mother talked long and late together,\nshaping into certainty the suspicion that Christian's mind had\nlost its balance, and discussing the evident cause. For Sweyn,\ndeclaring his own love for White Fell, suggested that his\nunfortunate brother, with a like passion, they being twins in\nloves as in birth, had through jealousy and despair turned from\nlove to hate, until reason failed at the strain, and a craze\ndeveloped, which the malice and treachery of madness made a\nserious and dangerous force.\n\nSo Sweyn theorised, convincing himself as he spoke; convincing\nafterwards others who advanced doubts against White Fell;\nfettering his judgment by his advocacy, and by his staunch defence\nof her hurried flight silencing his own inner consciousness of the\nunaccountability of her action.\n\nBut a little time and Sweyn lost his vantage in the shock of a\nfresh horror at the homestead. Trella was no more, and her end a\nmystery. The poor old woman crawled out in a bright gleam to visit\na bed-ridden gossip living beyond the fir-grove. Under the trees\nshe was last seen, halting for her companion, sent back for a\nforgotten present. Quick alarm sprang, calling every man to the\nsearch. Her stick was found among the brushwood only a few paces\nfrom the path, but no track or stain, for a gusty wind was sifting\nthe snow from the branches, and hid all sign of how she came by\nher death.\n\nSo panic-stricken were the farm folk that none dared go singly on\nthe search. Known danger could be braced, but not this stealthy\nDeath that walked by day invisible, that cut off alike the child\nin his play and the aged woman so near to her quiet grave.\n\n\"Rol she kissed; Trella she kissed!\" So rang Christian's frantic\ncry again and again, till Sweyn dragged him away and strove to\nkeep him apart, albeit in his agony of grief and remorse he\naccused himself wildly as answerable for the tragedy, and gave\nclear proof that the charge of madness was well founded, if\nstrange looks and desperate, incoherent words were evidence\nenough.\n\nBut thenceforward all Sweyn's reasoning and mastery could not\nuphold White Fell above suspicion. He was not called upon to\ndefend her from accusation when Christian had been brought to\nsilence again; but he well knew the significance of this fact,\nthat her name, formerly uttered freely and often, he never heard\nnow: it was huddled away into whispers that he could not catch.\n\nThe passing of time did not sweep away the superstitious fears\nthat Sweyn despised. He was angry and anxious; eager that White\nFell should return, and, merely by her bright gracious presence,\nreinstate herself in favour; but doubtful if all his authority and\nexample could keep from her notice an altered aspect of welcome;\nand he foresaw clearly that Christian would prove unmanageable,\nand might be capable of some dangerous outbreak.\n\nFor a time the twins' variance was marked, on Sweyn's part by an\nair of rigid indifference, on Christian's by heavy downcast\nsilence, and a nervous apprehensive observation of his brother.\nSuperadded to his remorse and foreboding, Sweyn's displeasure\nweighed upon him intolerably, and the remembrance of their violent\nrupture was a ceaseless misery. The elder brother, self-sufficient\nand insensitive, could little know how deeply his unkindness\nstabbed. A depth and force of affection such as Christian's was\nunknown to him. The loyal subservience that he could not\nappreciate had encouraged him to domineer; this strenuous\nopposition to his reason and will was accounted as furious malice,\nif not sheer insanity.\n\nChristian's surveillance galled him incessantly, and embarrassment\nand danger he foresaw as the outcome. Therefore, that suspicion\nmight be lulled, he judged it wise to make overtures for peace.\nMost easily done. A little kindliness, a few evidences of\nconsideration, a slight return of the old brotherly imperiousness,\nand Christian replied by a gratefulness and relief that might have\ntouched him had he understood all, but instead, increased his\nsecret contempt.\n\nSo successful was this finesse, that when, late on a day, a\nmessage summoning Christian to a distance was transmitted by\nSweyn, no doubt of its genuineness occurred. When, his errand\nproved useless, he set out to return, mistake or misapprehension\nwas all that he surmised. Not till he sighted the homestead, lying\nlow between the night-grey snow ridges, did vivid recollection of\nthe time when he had tracked that horror to the door rouse an\nintense dread, and with it a hardly-defined suspicion.\n\nHis grasp tightened on the bear-spear that he carried as a staff;\nevery sense was alert, every muscle strung; excitement urged him\non, caution checked him, and the two governed his long stride,\nswiftly, noiselessly, to the climax he felt was at hand.\n\nAs he drew near to the outer gates, a light shadow stirred and\nwent, as though the grey of the snow had taken detached motion. A\ndarker shadow stayed and faced Christian, striking his life-blood\nchill with utmost despair.\n\nSweyn stood before him, and surely, the shadow that went was White\nFell.\n\nThey had been together--close. Had she not been in his arms, near\nenough for lips to meet?\n\nThere was no moon, but the stars gave light enough to show that\nSweyn's face was flushed and elate. The flush remained, though the\nexpression changed quickly at sight of his brother. How, if\nChristian had seen all, should one of his frenzied outbursts be\nmet and managed: by resolution? by indifference? He halted between\nthe two, and as a result, he swaggered.\n\n\"White Fell?\" questioned Christian, hoarse and breathless.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\nSweyn's answer was a query, with an intonation that implied he was\nclearing the ground for action.\n\nFrom Christian came: \"Have you kissed her?\" like a bolt direct,\nstaggering Sweyn by its sheer prompt temerity.\n\nHe flushed yet darker, and yet half-smiled over this earnest of\nsuccess he had won. Had there been really between himself and\nChristian the rivalry that he imagined, his face had enough of the\ninsolence of triumph to exasperate jealous rage.\n\n\"You dare ask this!\"\n\n\"Sweyn, O Sweyn, I must know! You have!\"\n\nThe ring of despair and anguish in his tone angered Sweyn,\nmisconstruing it. Jealousy urging to such presumption was\nintolerable.\n\n\"Mad fool!\" he said, constraining himself no longer. \"Win for\nyourself a woman to kiss. Leave mine without question. Such an one\nas I should desire to kiss is such an one as shall never allow a\nkiss to you.\"\n\nThen Christian fully understood his supposition.\n\n\"I--I!\" he cried. \"White Fell--that deadly Thing! Sweyn, are you\nblind, mad? I would save you from her: a Were-Wolf!\"\n\nSweyn maddened again at the accusation--a dastardly way of\nrevenge, as he conceived; and instantly, for the second time, the\nbrothers were at strife violently.\n\nBut Christian was now too desperate to be scrupulous; for a dim\nglimpse had shot a possibility into his mind, and to be free to\nfollow it the striking of his brother was a necessity. Thank God!\nhe was armed, and so Sweyn's equal.\n\n[Illustration: The Race]\n\nFacing his assailant with the bear-spear, he struck up his arms,\nand with the butt end hit hard so that he fell. The matchless\nrunner leapt away on the instant, to follow a forlorn hope.\nSweyn, on regaining his feet, was as amazed as angry at this\nunaccountable flight. He knew in his heart that his brother was no\ncoward, and that it was unlike him to shrink from an encounter\nbecause defeat was certain, and cruel humiliation from a\nvindictive victor probable. Of the uselessness of pursuit he was\nwell aware: he must abide his chagrin, content to know that his\ntime for advantage would come. Since White Fell had parted to the\nright, Christian to the left, the event of a sequent encounter did\nnot occur to him. And now Christian, acting on the dim glimpse he\nhad had, just as Sweyn turned upon him, of something that moved\nagainst the sky along the ridge behind the homestead, was staking\nhis only hope on a chance, and his own superlative speed. If what\nhe saw was really White Fell, he guessed she was bending her steps\ntowards the open wastes; and there was just a possibility that, by\na straight dash, and a desperate perilous leap over a sheer bluff,\nhe might yet meet her or head her. And then: he had no further\nthought.\n\nIt was past, the quick, fierce race, and the chance of death at\nthe leap; and he halted in a hollow to fetch his breath and to\nlook: did she come? had she gone?\n\nShe came.\n\nShe came with a smooth, gliding, noiseless speed, that was neither\nwalking nor running; her arms were folded in her furs that were\ndrawn tight about her body; the white lappets from her head were\nwrapped and knotted closely beneath her face; her eyes were set on\na far distance. So she went till the even sway of her going was\nstartled to a pause by Christian.\n\n\"Fell!\"\n\nShe drew a quick, sharp breath at the sound of her name thus\nmutilated, and faced Sweyn's brother. Her eyes glittered; her\nupper lip was lifted, and shewed the teeth. The half of her name,\nimpressed with an ominous sense as uttered by him, warned her of\nthe aspect of a deadly foe. Yet she cast loose her robes till they\ntrailed ample, and spoke as a mild woman.\n\n\"What would you?\"\n\nThen Christian answered with his solemn dreadful accusation:\n\n\"You kissed Rol--and Rol is dead! You kissed Trella: she is dead!\nYou have kissed Sweyn, my brother; but he shall not die!\"\n\nHe added: \"You may live till midnight.\"\n\nThe edge of the teeth and the glitter of the eyes stayed a moment,\nand her right hand also slid down to the axe haft. Then, without a\nword, she swerved from him, and sprang out and away swiftly over\nthe snow.\n\nAnd Christian sprang out and away, and followed her swiftly over\nthe snow, keeping behind, but half-a-stride's length from her\nside.\n\nSo they went running together, silent, towards the vast wastes of\nsnow, where no living thing but they two moved under the stars of\nnight.\n\nNever before had Christian so rejoiced in his powers. The gift of\nspeed, and the training of use and endurance were priceless to him\nnow. Though midnight was hours away, he was confident that, go\nwhere that Fell Thing would, hasten as she would, she could not\noutstrip him nor escape from him. Then, when came the time for\ntransformation, when the woman's form made no longer a shield\nagainst a man's hand, he could slay or be slain to save Sweyn. He\nhad struck his dear brother in dire extremity, but he could not,\nthough reason urged, strike a woman.\n\nFor one mile, for two miles they ran: White Fell ever foremost,\nChristian ever at equal distance from her side, so near that, now\nand again, her out-flying furs touched him. She spoke no word; nor\nhe. She never turned her head to look at him, nor swerved to evade\nhim; but, with set face looking forward, sped straight on, over\nrough, over smooth, aware of his nearness by the regular beat of\nhis feet, and the sound of his breath behind.\n\nIn a while she quickened her pace. From the first, Christian had\njudged of her speed as admirable, yet with exulting security in\nhis own excelling and enduring whatever her efforts. But, when the\npace increased, he found himself put to the test as never had he\nbeen before in any race. Her feet, indeed, flew faster than his;\nit was only by his length of stride that he kept his place at her\nside. But his heart was high and resolute, and he did not fear\nfailure yet.\n\nSo the desperate race flew on. Their feet struck up the powdery\nsnow, their breath smoked into the sharp clear air, and they were\ngone before the air was cleared of snow and vapour. Now and then\nChristian glanced up to judge, by the rising of the stars, of the\ncoming of midnight. So long--so long!\n\nWhite Fell held on without slack. She, it was evident, with\nconfidence in her speed proving matchless, as resolute to outrun\nher pursuer as he to endure till midnight and fulfil his purpose.\nAnd Christian held on, still self-assured. He could not fail; he\nwould not fail. To avenge Rol and Trella was motive enough for him\nto do what man could do; but for Sweyn more. She had kissed Sweyn,\nbut he should not die too: with Sweyn to save he could not fail.\n\nNever before was such a race as this; no, not when in old Greece\nman and maid raced together with two fates at stake; for the hard\nrunning was sustained unabated, while star after star rose and\nwent wheeling up towards midnight, for one hour, for two hours.\n\nThen Christian saw and heard what shot him through with fear.\nWhere a fringe of trees hung round a slope he saw something dark\nmoving, and heard a yelp, followed by a full horrid cry, and the\ndark spread out upon the snow, a pack of wolves in pursuit.\n\nOf the beasts alone he had little cause for fear; at the pace he\nheld he could distance them, four-footed though they were. But of\nWhite Fell's wiles he had infinite apprehension, for how might she\nnot avail herself of the savage jaws of these wolves, akin as they\nwere to half her nature. She vouchsafed to them nor look nor sign;\nbut Christian, on an impulse to assure himself that she should not\nescape him, caught and held the back-flung edge of her furs,\nrunning still.\n\nShe turned like a flash with a beastly snarl, teeth and eyes\ngleaming again. Her axe shone, on the upstroke, on the downstroke,\nas she hacked at his hand. She had lopped it off at the wrist, but\nthat he parried with the bear-spear. Even then, she shore through\nthe shaft and shattered the bones of the hand at the same blow, so\nthat he loosed perforce.\n\nThen again they raced on as before, Christian not losing a pace,\nthough his left hand swung useless, bleeding and broken.\n\nThe snarl, indubitable, though modified from a woman's organs, the\nvicious fury revealed in teeth and eyes, the sharp arrogant pain\nof her maiming blow, caught away Christian's heed of the beasts\nbehind, by striking into him close vivid realisation of the\ninfinitely greater danger that ran before him in that deadly\nThing.\n\nWhen he bethought him to look behind, lo! the pack had but reached\ntheir tracks, and instantly slunk aside, cowed; the yell of\npursuit changing to yelps and whines. So abhorrent was that fell\ncreature to beast as to man.\n\nShe had drawn her furs more closely to her, disposing them so\nthat, instead of flying loose to her heels, no drapery hung lower\nthan her knees, and this without a check to her wonderful speed,\nnor embarrassment by the cumbering of the folds. She held her head\nas before; her lips were firmly set, only the tense nostrils gave\nher breath; not a sign of distress witnessed to the long\nsustaining of that terrible speed.\n\nBut on Christian by now the strain was telling palpably. His head\nweighed heavy, and his breath came labouring in great sobs; the\nbear spear would have been a burden now. His heart was beating\nlike a hammer, but such a dulness oppressed his brain, that it was\nonly by degrees he could realise his helpless state; wounded and\nweaponless, chasing that terrible Thing, that was a fierce,\ndesperate, axe-armed woman, except she should assume the beast\nwith fangs yet more formidable.\n\nAnd still the far slow stars went lingering nearly an hour from\nmidnight.\n\nSo far was his brain astray that an impression took him that she\nwas fleeing from the midnight stars, whose gain was by such slow\ndegrees that a time equalling days and days had gone in the race\nround the northern circle of the world, and days and days as long\nmight last before the end--except she slackened, or except he\nfailed.\n\nBut he would not fail yet.\n\nHow long had he been praying so? He had started with a\nself-confidence and reliance that had felt no need for that aid;\nand now it seemed the only means by which to restrain his heart\nfrom swelling beyond the compass of his body, by which to cherish\nhis brain from dwindling and shrivelling quite away. Some\nsharp-toothed creature kept tearing and dragging on his maimed\nleft hand; he never could see it, he could not shake it off; but\nhe prayed it off at times.\n\nThe clear stars before him took to shuddering, and he knew why:\nthey shuddered at sight of what was behind him. He had never\ndivined before that strange things hid themselves from men under\npretence of being snow-clad mounds or swaying trees; but now they\ncame slipping out from their harmless covers to follow him, and\nmock at his impotence to make a kindred Thing resolve to truer\nform. He knew the air behind him was thronged; he heard the hum of\ninnumerable murmurings together; but his eyes could never catch\nthem, they were too swift and nimble. Yet he knew they were there,\nbecause, on a backward glance, he saw the snow mounds surge as\nthey grovelled flatlings out of sight; he saw the trees reel as\nthey screwed themselves rigid past recognition among the boughs.\n\nAnd after such glance the stars for awhile returned to\nsteadfastness, and an infinite stretch of silence froze upon the\nchill grey world, only deranged by the swift even beat of the\nflying feet, and his own--slower from the longer stride, and the\nsound of his breath. And for some clear moments he knew that his\nonly concern was, to sustain his speed regardless of pain and\ndistress, to deny with every nerve he had her power to outstrip\nhim or to widen the space between them, till the stars crept up to\nmidnight. Then out again would come that crowd invisible, humming\nand hustling behind, dense and dark enough, he knew, to blot out\nthe stars at his back, yet ever skipping and jerking from his\nsight.\n\nA hideous check came to the race. White Fell swirled about and\nleapt to the right, and Christian, unprepared for so prompt a\nlurch, found close at his feet a deep pit yawning, and his own\nimpetus past control. But he snatched at her as he bore past,\nclasping her right arm with his one whole hand, and the two swung\ntogether upon the brink.\n\nAnd her straining away in self preservation was vigorous enough to\ncounter-balance his headlong impulse, and brought them reeling\ntogether to safety.\n\nThen, before he was verily sure that they were not to perish so,\ncrashing down, he saw her gnashing in wild pale fury as she\nwrenched to be free; and since her right hand was in his grasp,\nused her axe left-handed, striking back at him.\n\nThe blow was effectual enough even so; his right arm dropped\npowerless, gashed, and with the lesser bone broken, that jarred\nwith horrid pain when he let it swing as he leaped out again, and\nran to recover the few feet she had gained from his pause at the\nshock.\n\nThe near escape and this new quick pain made again every faculty\nalive and intense. He knew that what he followed was most surely\nDeath animate: wounded and helpless, he was utterly at her mercy\nif so she should realise and take action. Hopeless to avenge,\nhopeless to save, his very despair for Sweyn swept him on to\nfollow, and follow, and precede the kiss-doomed to death. Could he\nyet fail to hunt that Thing past midnight, out of the womanly form\nalluring and treacherous, into lasting restraint of the bestial,\nwhich was the last shred of hope left from the confident purpose\nof the outset?\n\n\"Sweyn, Sweyn, O Sweyn!\" He thought he was praying, though his\nheart wrung out nothing but this: \"Sweyn, Sweyn, O Sweyn!\"\n\nThe last hour from midnight had lost half its quarters, and the\nstars went lifting up the great minutes; and again his greatening\nheart, and his shrinking brain, and the sickening agony that swung\nat either side, conspired to appal the will that had only seeming\nempire over his feet.\n\nNow White Fell's body was so closely enveloped that not a lap nor\nan edge flew free. She stretched forward strangely aslant, leaning\nfrom the upright poise of a runner. She cleared the ground at\ntimes by long bounds, gaining an increase of speed that Christian\nagonised to equal.\n\nBecause the stars pointed that the end was nearing, the black\nbrood came behind again, and followed, noising. Ah! if they could\nbut be kept quiet and still, nor slip their usual harmless masks\nto encourage with their interest the last speed of their most\ndeadly congener. What shape had they? Should he ever know? If it\nwere not that he was bound to compel the fell Thing that ran\nbefore him into her truer form, he might face about and follow\nthem. No--no--not so; if he might do anything but what he\ndid--race, race, and racing bear this agony, he would just stand\nstill and die, to be quit of the pain of breathing.\n\nHe grew bewildered, uncertain of his own identity, doubting of his\nown true form. He could not be really a man, no more than that\nrunning Thing was really a woman; his real form was only hidden\nunder embodiment of a man, but what it was he did not know. And\nSweyn's real form he did not know. Sweyn lay fallen at his feet,\nwhere he had struck him down--his own brother--he: he stumbled\nover him, and had to overleap him and race harder because she who\nhad kissed Sweyn leapt so fast. \"Sweyn, Sweyn, O Sweyn!\"\n\nWhy did the stars stop to shudder? Midnight else had surely come!\n\nThe leaning, leaping Thing looked back at him with a wild, fierce\nlook, and laughed in savage scorn and triumph. He saw in a flash\nwhy, for within a time measurable by seconds she would have\nescaped him utterly. As the land lay, a slope of ice sunk on the\none hand; on the other hand a steep rose, shouldering forwards;\nbetween the two was space for a foot to be planted, but none for a\nbody to stand; yet a juniper bough, thrusting out, gave a handhold\nsecure enough for one with a resolute grasp to swing past the\nperilous place, and pass on safe.\n\nThough the first seconds of the last moment were going, she dared\nto flash back a wicked look, and laugh at the pursuer who was\nimpotent to grasp.\n\n[Illustration: The Finish]\n\nThe crisis struck convulsive life into his last supreme effort;\nhis will surged up indomitable, his speed proved matchless yet. He\nleapt with a rush, passed her before her laugh had time to go out,\nand turned short, barring the way, and braced to withstand her.\n\nShe came hurling desperate, with a feint to the right hand, and\nthen launched herself upon him with a spring like a wild beast\nwhen it leaps to kill. And he, with one strong arm and a hand that\ncould not hold, with one strong hand and an arm that could not\nguide and sustain, he caught and held her even so. And they fell\ntogether. And because he felt his whole arm slipping, and his\nwhole hand loosing, to slack the dreadful agony of the wrenched\nbone above, he caught and held with his teeth the tunic at her\nknee, as she struggled up and wrung off his hands to overleap him\nvictorious.\n\nLike lightning she snatched her axe, and struck him on the neck,\ndeep--once, twice--his life-blood gushed out, staining her feet.\n\nThe stars touched midnight.\n\nThe death scream he heard was not his, for his set teeth had\nhardly yet relaxed when it rang out; and the dreadful cry began\nwith a woman's shriek, and changed and ended as the yell of a\nbeast. And before the final blank overtook his dying eyes, he saw\nthat She gave place to It; he saw more, that Life gave place to\nDeath--causelessly, incomprehensibly.\n\nFor he did not presume that no holy water could be more holy, more\npotent to destroy an evil thing than the life-blood of a pure\nheart poured out for another in free willing devotion.\n\nHis own true hidden reality that he had desired to know grew\npalpable, recognisable. It seemed to him just this: a great glad\nabounding hope that he had saved his brother; too expansive to be\ncontained by the limited form of a sole man, it yearned for a new\nembodiment infinite as the stars.\n\nWhat did it matter to that true reality that the man's brain\nshrank, shrank, till it was nothing; that the man's body could not\nretain the huge pain of his heart, and heaved it out through the\nred exit riven at the neck; that the black noise came again\nhurtling from behind, reinforced by that dissolved shape, and\nblotted out for ever the man's sight, hearing, sense.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the early grey of day Sweyn chanced upon the footprints of a\nman--of a runner, as he saw by the shifted snow; and the direction\nthey had taken aroused curiosity, since a little farther their\nline must be crossed by the edge of a sheer height. He turned to\ntrace them. And so doing, the length of the stride struck his\nattention--a stride long as his own if he ran. He knew he was\nfollowing Christian.\n\nIn his anger he had hardened himself to be indifferent to the\nnight-long absence of his brother; but now, seeing where the\nfootsteps went, he was seized with compunction and dread. He had\nfailed to give thought and care to his poor frantic twin, who\nmight--was it possible?--have rushed to a frantic death.\n\nHis heart stood still when he came to the place where the leap had\nbeen taken. A piled edge of snow had fallen too, and nothing but\nsnow lay below when he peered. Along the upper edge he ran for a\nfurlong, till he came to a dip where he could slip and climb down,\nand then back again on the lower level to the pile of fallen snow.\nThere he saw that the vigorous running had started afresh.\n\nHe stood pondering; vexed that any man should have taken that leap\nwhere he had not ventured to follow; vexed that he had been\nbeguiled to such painful emotions; guessing vainly at Christian's\nobject in this mad freak. He began sauntering along, half\nunconsciously following his brother's track; and so in a while he\ncame to the place where the footprints were doubled.\n\nSmall prints were these others, small as a woman's, though the\npace from one to another was longer than that which the skirts of\nwomen allow.\n\nDid not White Fell tread so?\n\nA dreadful guess appalled him, so dreadful that he recoiled from\nbelief. Yet his face grew ashy white, and he gasped to fetch back\nmotion to his checked heart. Unbelievable? Closer attention showed\nhow the smaller footfall had altered for greater speed, striking\ninto the snow with a deeper onset and a lighter pressure on the\nheels. Unbelievable? Could any woman but White Fell run so? Could\nany man but Christian run so? The guess became a certainty. He was\nfollowing where alone in the dark night White Fell had fled from\nChristian pursuing.\n\nSuch villainy set heart and brain on fire with rage and\nindignation: such villainy in his own brother, till lately\nlove-worthy, praiseworthy, though a fool for meekness. He would\nkill Christian; had he lives many as the footprints he had trodden,\nvengeance should demand them all. In a tempest of murderous hate\nhe followed on in haste, for the track was plain enough, starting\nwith such a burst of speed as could not be maintained, but brought\nhim back soon to a plod for the spent, sobbing breath to be\nregulated. He cursed Christian aloud and called White Fell's name\non high in a frenzied expense of passion. His grief itself was a\nrage, being such an intolerable anguish of pity and shame at the\nthought of his love, White Fell, who had parted from his kiss free\nand radiant, to be hounded straightway by his brother mad with\njealousy, fleeing for more than life while her lover was housed at\nhis ease. If he had but known, he raved, in impotent rebellion at\nthe cruelty of events, if he had but known that his strength and\nlove might have availed in her defence; now the only service to\nher that he could render was to kill Christian.\n\nAs a woman he knew she was matchless in speed, matchless in\nstrength; but Christian was matchless in speed among men, nor\neasily to be matched in strength. Brave and swift and strong\nthough she were, what chance had she against a man of his strength\nand inches, frantic, too, and intent on horrid revenge against his\nbrother, his successful rival?\n\nMile after mile he followed with a bursting heart; more piteous,\nmore tragic, seemed the case at this evidence of White Fell's\nsplendid supremacy, holding her own so long against Christian's\nfamous speed. So long, so long that his love and admiration grew\nmore and more boundless, and his grief and indignation therewith\nalso. Whenever the track lay clear he ran, with such reckless\nprodigality of strength, that it soon was spent, and he dragged on\nheavily, till, sometimes on the ice of a mere, sometimes on a\nwind-swept place, all signs were lost; but, so undeviating had\nbeen their line that a course straight on, and then short questing\nto either hand, recovered them again.\n\nHour after hour had gone by through more than half that winter\nday, before ever he came to the place where the trampled snow\nshowed that a scurry of feet had come--and gone! Wolves' feet--and\ngone most amazingly! Only a little beyond he came to the lopped\npoint of Christian's bear-spear; farther on he would see where the\nremnant of the useless shaft had been dropped. The snow here was\ndashed with blood, and the footsteps of the two had fallen closer\ntogether. Some hoarse sound of exultation came from him that might\nhave been a laugh had breath sufficed. \"O White Fell, my poor,\nbrave love! Well struck!\" he groaned, torn by his pity and great\nadmiration, as he guessed surely how she had turned and dealt a\nblow.\n\nThe sight of the blood inflamed him as it might a beast that\nravens. He grew mad with a desire to have Christian by the throat\nonce again, not to loose this time till he had crushed out his\nlife, or beat out his life, or stabbed out his life; or all these,\nand torn him piecemeal likewise: and ah! then, not till then,\nbleed his heart with weeping, like a child, like a girl, over the\npiteous fate of his poor lost love.\n\nOn--on--on--through the aching time, toiling and straining in the\ntrack of those two superb runners, aware of the marvel of their\nendurance, but unaware of the marvel of their speed, that, in the\nthree hours before midnight had overpassed all that vast distance\nthat he could only traverse from twilight to twilight. For clear\ndaylight was passing when he came to the edge of an old marl-pit,\nand saw how the two who had gone before had stamped and trampled\ntogether in desperate peril on the verge. And here fresh blood\nstains spoke to him of a valiant defence against his infamous\nbrother; and he followed where the blood had dripped till the cold\nhad staunched its flow, taking a savage gratification from this\nevidence that Christian had been gashed deeply, maddening afresh\nwith desire to do likewise more excellently, and so slake his\nmurderous hate. And he began to know that through all his despair\nhe had entertained a germ of hope, that grew apace, rained upon by\nhis brother's blood.\n\nHe strove on as best he might, wrung now by an access of hope, now\nof despair, in agony to reach the end, however terrible, sick with\nthe aching of the toiled miles that deferred it.\n\nAnd the light went lingering out of the sky, giving place to\nuncertain stars.\n\nHe came to the finish.\n\nTwo bodies lay in a narrow place. Christian's was one, but the\nother beyond not White Fell's. There where the footsteps ended lay\na great white wolf.\n\nAt the sight Sweyn's strength was blasted; body and soul he was\nstruck down grovelling.\n\nThe stars had grown sure and intense before he stirred from where\nhe had dropped prone. Very feebly he crawled to his dead brother,\nand laid his hands upon him, and crouched so, afraid to look or\nstir farther.\n\nCold, stiff, hours dead. Yet the dead body was his only shelter\nand stay in that most dreadful hour. His soul, stripped bare of\nall sceptic comfort, cowered, shivering, naked, abject; and the\nliving clung to the dead out of piteous need for grace from the\nsoul that had passed away.\n\nHe rose to his knees, lifting the body. Christian had fallen face\nforward in the snow, with his arms flung up and wide, and so had\nthe frost made him rigid: strange, ghastly, unyielding to Sweyn's\nlifting, so that he laid him down again and crouched above, with\nhis arms fast round him, and a low heart-wrung groan.\n\n[Illustration: Sweyn's Finding]\n\nWhen at last he found force to raise his brother's body and gather\nit in his arms, tight clasped to his breast, he tried to face the\nThing that lay beyond. The sight set his limbs in a palsy with\nhorror and dread. His senses had failed and fainted in utter\ncowardice, but for the strength that came from holding dead\nChristian in his arms, enabling him to compel his eyes to endure\nthe sight, and take into the brain the complete aspect of the\nThing. No wound, only blood stains on the feet. The great grim\njaws had a savage grin, though dead-stiff. And his kiss: he could\nbear it no longer, and turned away, nor ever looked again.\n\nAnd the dead man in his arms, knowing the full horror, had\nfollowed and faced it for his sake; had suffered agony and death\nfor his sake; in the neck was the deep death gash, one arm and\nboth hands were dark with frozen blood, for his sake! Dead he knew\nhim, as in life he had not known him, to give the right meed of\nlove and worship. Because the outward man lacked perfection and\nstrength equal to his, he had taken the love and worship of that\ngreat pure heart as his due; he, so unworthy in the inner reality,\nso mean, so despicable, callous, and contemptuous towards the\nbrother who had laid down his life to save him. He longed for\nutter annihilation, that so he might lose the agony of knowing\nhimself so unworthy such perfect love. The frozen calm of death on\nthe face appalled him. He dared not touch it with lips that had\ncursed so lately, with lips fouled by kiss of the horror that had\nbeen death.\n\nHe struggled to his feet, still clasping Christian. The dead man\nstood upright within his arm, frozen rigid. The eyes were not\nquite closed; the head had stiffened, bowed slightly to one side;\nthe arms stayed straight and wide. It was the figure of one\ncrucified, the blood-stained hands also conforming.\n\nSo living and dead went back along the track that one had passed\nin the deepest passion of love, and one in the deepest passion of\nhate. All that night Sweyn toiled through the snow, bearing the\nweight of dead Christian, treading back along the steps he before\nhad trodden, when he was wronging with vilest thoughts, and\ncursing with murderous hatred, the brother who all the while lay\ndead for his sake.\n\nCold, silence, darkness encompassed the strong man bowed with the\ndolorous burden; and yet he knew surely that that night he entered\nhell, and trod hell-fire along the homeward road, and endured\nthrough it only because Christian was with him. And he knew surely\nthat to him Christian had been as Christ, and had suffered and\ndied to save him from his sins.\n\n\n[Illustration]","title":"The Were-Wolf","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":15303}