Untrodden snow lay up to the porch; there was no sight nor sound
of any human being. Sweyn strained his eyes far and near, only to
see dark sky, pure snow, and a line of black fir trees on a hill
brow, bowing down before the wind. "It must have been the wind,"
he said, and closed the door.
Many faces looked scared. The sound of a child's voice had been so
distinct--and the words "Open, open; let me in!" The wind might
creak the wood, or rattle the latch, but could not speak with a
child's voice, nor knock with the soft plain blows that a plump
fist gives. And the strange unusual howl of the wolf-hound was an
omen to be feared, be the rest what it might. Strange things were
said by one and another, till the rebuke of the house-mistress
quelled them into far-off whispers. For a time after there was
uneasiness, constraint, and silence; then the chill fear thawed by
degrees, and the babble of talk flowed on again.
Yet half-an-hour later a very slight noise outside the door
sufficed to arrest every hand, every tongue. Every head was
raised, every eye fixed in one direction. "It is Christian; he is
late," said Sweyn.
No, no; this is a feeble shuffle, not a young man's tread. With
the sound of uncertain feet came the hard tap-tap of a stick
against the door, and the high-pitched voice of eld, "Open, open;
let me in!" Again Tyr flung up his head in a long doleful howl.
Before the echo of the tapping stick and the high voice had fairly
died away, Sweyn had sprung across to the door and flung it wide.
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