he knew what wolf it was. He tried to
declare what he knew, but Sweyn saw him start at the words with
white face and struggling lips; and, guessing his purpose, pulled
him back, and kept him silent, hardly, by his imperious grip and
wrathful eyes, and one low whisper.

That Christian should retain his most irrational suspicion against
beautiful White Fell was, to Sweyn, evidence of a weak obstinacy
of mind that would but thrive upon expostulation and argument. But
this evident intention to direct the passions of grief and anguish
to a hatred and fear of the fair stranger, such as his own, was
intolerable, and Sweyn set his will against it. Again Christian
yielded to his brother's stronger words and will, and against his
own judgment consented to silence.

Repentance came before the new moon, the first of the year, was
old. White Fell came again, smiling as she entered, as though
assured of a glad and kindly welcome; and, in truth, there was
only one who saw again her fair face and strange white garb
without pleasure. Sweyn's face glowed with delight, while
Christian's grew pale and rigid as death. He had given his word to
keep silence; but he had not thought that she would dare to come
again. Silence was impossible, face to face with that Thing,
impossible. Irrepressibly he cried out:

"Where is Rol?"

Not a quiver disturbed White Fell's face. She heard, yet remained
bright and tranquil. Sweyn's eyes flashed round at his brother
dangerously. Among the women some tears fell at the poor child's
name; but none caught alarm from its sudden utterance, for the
thought of Rol rose naturally. Where was little Rol, who had
nestled in the stranger's arms, kissing her; and watched for her
since; and prattled of her daily?

Christian went out silently. One only thing there was that he
could do, and he must not delay. His horror overmastered any
curiosity to hear White Fell's smooth excuses and smiling
apologies for her strange and uncourteous departure; or her easy
tale of the circumstances of her return; or to watch her bearing
as she heard the sad tale of little Rol.

The swiftest runner of the country-side had started on his hardest
race: little less than three leagues and back, which he reckoned
to accomplish in two hours, though the night was moonless and the
way rugged. He rushed against the still cold air till it felt like
a wind upon his face. The dim homestead sank below the ridges at
his back, and fresh ridges