Repentance came before the new moon, the first of the year, was old.  White Fell came again, smiling as she entered, as though assured of a glad and kindly welcome; and, in truth, there was only one who saw again her fair face and strange white garb without pleasure.  Sweyn’s face glowed with delight, while Christian’s grew pale and rigid as death.  He had given his word to keep silence; but he had not thought that she would dare to come again.  Silence was impossible, face to face with that Thing, impossible.  Irrepressibly he cried out: 

“Where is Rol?”

Not a quiver disturbed White Fell’s face.  She heard, yet remained bright and tranquil.  Sweyn’s eyes flashed round at his brother dangerously.  Among the women some tears fell at the poor child’s name; but none caught alarm from its sudden utterance, for the thought of Rol rose naturally.  Where was little Rol, who had nestled in the stranger’s arms, kissing her; and watched for her since; and prattled of her daily?

Christian went out silently.  One only thing there was that he could do, and he must not delay.  His horror overmastered any curiosity to hear White Fell’s smooth excuses and smiling apologies for her strange and uncourteous departure; or her easy tale of the circumstances of her return; or to watch her bearing as she heard the sad tale of little Rol.

The swiftest runner of the country-side had started on his hardest race:  little less than three leagues and back, which he reckoned to accomplish in two hours, though the night was moonless and the way rugged.  He rushed against the still cold air till it felt like a wind upon his face.  The dim homestead sank below the ridges at his back, and fresh ridges of snowlands rose out of the obscure horizon-level to drive past him as the stirless air drove, and sink away behind into obscure level again.  He took no conscious heed of landmarks, not even when all sign of a path was gone under depths of snow.  His will was set to reach his goal with unexampled speed; and thither by instinct his physical forces bore him, without one definite thought to guide.

And the idle brain lay passive, inert, receiving into its vacancy restless siftings of past sights and sounds:  Rol, weeping, laughing, playing, coiled in the arms of that dreadful Thing:  Tyr—­O Tyr!—­white fangs in the black jowl:  the women who wept on The foolish puppy, precious for the child’s last touch:  footprints from pine wood to door:  the smiling face among furs, of such womanly beauty—­smiling—­smiling:  and Sweyn’s face.

“Sweyn, Sweyn, O Sweyn, my brother!”

Sweyn’s angry laugh possessed his ear within the sound of the wind of his speed; Sweyn’s scorn assailed more quick and keen than the biting cold at his throat.  And yet he was unimpressed by any thought of how Sweyn’s anger and scorn would rise, if this errand were known.