After a time Sweyn left his work, joined the group nearest
the door, and loitered there on the pretence of giving advice and
help to the unskilful.
A man's tread was heard outside in the porch. "Christian!" said
Sweyn and his mother simultaneously, he confidently, she
authoritatively, to set the checked wheels going again. But Tyr
flung up his head with an appalling howl.
"Open, open; let me in!"
It was a man's voice, and the door shook and rattled as a man's
strength beat against it. Sweyn could feel the planks quivering,
as on the instant his hand was upon the door, flinging it open, to
face the blank porch, and beyond only snow and sky, and firs
aslant in the wind.
He stood for a long minute with the open door in his hand. The
bitter wind swept in with its icy chill, but a deadlier chill of
fear came swifter, and seemed to freeze the beating of hearts.
Sweyn stepped back to snatch up a great bearskin cloak.
"Sweyn, where are you going?"
"No farther than the porch, mother," and he stepped out and closed
the door.
He wrapped himself in the heavy fur, and leaning against the most
sheltered wall of the porch, steeled his nerves to face the devil
and all his works. No sound of voices came from within; the most
distinct sound was the crackle and roar of the fire.
It was bitterly cold. His feet grew numb, but he forbore stamping
them into warmth lest the sound should strike panic within; nor
would he leave the porch, nor print a foot-mark on the untrodden
white that declared so absolutely how no human voices and hands
could have approached the door since snow fell two hours or more
ago.
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