The light and motion of the great fire began to tell strange
stories to the child, and the wind in the chimney roared a
corroborative note now and then. The great black mouth of the
chimney, impending high over the hearth, received as into a
mysterious gulf murky coils of smoke and brightness of aspiring
sparks; and beyond, in the high darkness, were muttering and
wailing and strange doings, so that sometimes the smoke rushed
back in panic, and curled out and up to the roof, and condensed
itself to invisibility among the rafters. And then the wind would
rage after its lost prey, and rush round the house, rattling and
shrieking at window and door.
In a lull, after one such loud gust, Rol lifted his head in
surprise and listened. A lull had also come on the babel of talk,
and thus could be heard with strange distinctness a sound outside
the door--the sound of a child's voice, a child's hands. "Open,
open; let me in!" piped the little voice from low down, lower than
the handle, and the latch rattled as though a tiptoe child reached
up to it, and soft small knocks were struck. One near the door
sprang up and opened it. "No one is here," he said. Tyr lifted his
head and gave utterance to a howl, loud, prolonged, most dismal.
Sweyn, not able to believe that his ears had deceived him, got up
and went to the door. It was a dark night; the clouds were heavy
with snow, that had fallen fitfully when the wind lulled.
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