"Rol!" exclaimed his aunt; but, "Oh, let him!" said White Fell,
smiling and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.
He advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the
face of his aunt's authority, climbed up on to her knees. Her
welcoming arms hindered any protest. He nestled happily, fingering
the axe head, the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at
her throat, the plaits of fair hair; rubbing his head against the
softness of her fur-clad shoulder, with a child's full confidence
in the kindness of beauty.
White Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant
fur loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it,
whispering her name to himself, "White Fell, White Fell," then
slid his arms round her neck, and kissed her--once--twice. She
laughed delightedly, and kissed him again.
"The child plagues you?" said Sweyn.
"No, indeed," she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to
seem disproportionate to the occasion.
Rol settled himself again on her lap, and began to unwind the
bandage bound round his hand. He paused a little when he saw where
the blood had soaked through; then went on till his hand was bare
and the cut displayed, gaping and long, though only skin deep. He
held it up towards White Fell, desirous of her pity and sympathy.
At sight of it, and the blood-stained linen, she drew in her
breath suddenly, clasped Rol to her--hard, hard--till he began to
struggle.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26