He stroked the black head. "Good Tyr! brave dog!"
They knew, they only; and the man and the dumb dog had comfort of
each other.
Christian's eyes turned again towards White Fell: Tyr's also, and
he strained against the length of the chain. Christian's hand lay
on the dog's neck, and he felt it ridge and bristle with the
quivering of impotent fury. Then he began to quiver in like
manner, with a fury born of reason, not instinct; as impotent
morally as was Tyr physically. Oh! the woman's form that he dare
not touch! Anything but that, and he with Tyr would be free to
kill or be killed.
Then he returned to ask fresh questions.
"How long has the stranger been here?"
"She came about half-an-hour before you."
"Who opened the door to her?"
"Sweyn: no one else dared."
The tone of the answer was mysterious.
"Why?" queried Christian. "Has anything strange happened? Tell
me."
For answer he was told in a low undertone of the summons at the
door thrice repeated without human agency; and of Tyr's ominous
howls; and of Sweyn's fruitless watch outside.
Christian turned towards his brother in a torment of impatience
for a word apart. The board was spread, and Sweyn was leading
White Fell to the guest's place. This was more awful: she would
break bread with them under the roof-tree!
He started forward, and touching Sweyn's arm, whispered an urgent
entreaty. Sweyn stared, and shook his head in angry impatience.
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