So Sweyn theorised, convincing himself as he spoke; convincing
afterwards others who advanced doubts against White Fell;
fettering his judgment by his advocacy, and by his staunch defence
of her hurried flight silencing his own inner consciousness of the
unaccountability of her action.
But a little time and Sweyn lost his vantage in the shock of a
fresh horror at the homestead. Trella was no more, and her end a
mystery. The poor old woman crawled out in a bright gleam to visit
a bed-ridden gossip living beyond the fir-grove. Under the trees
she was last seen, halting for her companion, sent back for a
forgotten present. Quick alarm sprang, calling every man to the
search. Her stick was found among the brushwood only a few paces
from the path, but no track or stain, for a gusty wind was sifting
the snow from the branches, and hid all sign of how she came by
her death.
So panic-stricken were the farm folk that none dared go singly on
the search. Known danger could be braced, but not this stealthy
Death that walked by day invisible, that cut off alike the child
in his play and the aged woman so near to her quiet grave.
"Rol she kissed; Trella she kissed!" So rang Christian's frantic
cry again and again, till Sweyn dragged him away and strove to
keep him apart, albeit in his agony of grief and remorse he
accused himself wildly as answerable for the tragedy, and gave
clear proof that the charge of madness was well founded, if
strange looks and desperate, incoherent words were evidence
enough.
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