The Werewolf Megapack. Александр ДюмаЧитать онлайн книгу.
him before: well for him that he had not passed through the dark fir-grove when that danger of jaws lurked there. Going warily, he followed the track.
It led down the slope, across a broad ice-bound stream, along the level beyond, making towards the farm. A less precise knowledge had doubted, and guessed that here might have come straying big Tyr or his like; but Christian was sure, knowing better than to mistake between footmark of dog and wolf.
Straight on—straight on towards the farm.
Surprised and anxious grew Christian, that a prowling wolf should dare so near. He drew his knife and pressed on, more hastily, more keen-eyed. Oh that Tyr were with him!
Straight on, straight on, even to the very door, where the snow failed. His heart seemed to give a great leap and then stop. There the track ended.
Nothing lurked in the porch, and there was no sign of return. The firs stood straight against the sky, the clouds lay low; for the wind had fallen and a few snowflakes came drifting down. In a horror of surprise, Christian stood dazed a moment: then he lifted the latch and went in. His glance took in all the old familiar forms and faces, and with them that of the stranger, fur-clad and beautiful. The awful truth flashed upon him: he knew what she was.
Only a few were startled by the rattle of the latch as he entered. The room was filled with bustle and movement, for it was the supper hour, when all tools were laid aside, and trestles and tables shifted. Christian had no knowledge of what he said and did; he moved and spoke mechanically, half thinking that soon he must wake from this horrible dream. Sweyn and his mother supposed him to be cold and dead-tired, and spared all unnecessary questions. And he found himself seated beside the hearth, opposite that dreadful Thing that looked like a beautiful girl; watching her every movement, curdling with horror to see her fondle the child Rol.
Sweyn stood near them both, intent upon White Fell also; but how differently! She seemed unconscious of the gaze of both—neither aware of the chill dread in the eyes of Christian, nor of Sweyn’s warm admiration.
These two brothers, who were twins, contrasted greatly, despite their striking likeness. They were alike in regular profile, fair brown hair, and deep blue eyes; but Sweyn’s features were perfect as a young god’s, while Christian’s showed faulty details. Thus, the line of his mouth was set too straight, the eyes shelved too deeply back, and the contour of the face flowed in less generous curves than Sweyn’s. Their height was the same, but Christian was too slender for perfect proportion, while Sweyn’s well-knit frame, broad shoulders, and muscular arms, made him pre-eminent for manly beauty as well as for strength. As a hunter Sweyn was without rival; as a fisher without rival. All the countryside acknowledged him to be the best wrestler, rider, dancer, singer. Only in speed could he be surpassed, and in that only by his younger brother. All others Sweyn could distance fairly; but Christian could outrun him easily. Ay, he could keep pace with Sweyn’s most breathless burst, and laugh and talk the while. Christian took little pride in his fleetness of foot, counting a man’s legs to be the least worthy of his members. He had no envy of his brother’s athletic superiority, though to several feats he had made a moderate second. He loved as only a twin can love—proud of all that Sweyn did, content with all that Sweyn was; humbly content also that his own great love should not be so exceedingly returned, since he knew himself to be so far less love-worthy.
Christian dared not, in the midst of women and children, launch the horror that he knew into words. He waited to consult his brother; but Sweyn did not, or would not, notice the signal he made, and kept his face always turned towards White Fell. Christian drew away from the hearth, unable to remain passive with that dread upon him.
“Where is Tyr?” he said suddenly. Then, catching sight of the dog in a distant corner, “Why is he chained there?”
“He flew at the stranger,” one answered.
Christian’s eyes glowed. “Yes?” he said, interrogatively.
“He was within an ace of having his brain knocked out.”
“Tyr?”
“Yes; she was nimbly up with that little axe she has at her waist. It was well for old Tyr that his master throttled him off.”
Christian went without a word to the corner where Tyr was chained. The dog rose up to meet him, as piteous and indignant as a dumb beast can be. 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.
Thereupon Christian would take no morsel of food.
His opportunity came at last. White Fell questioned of the landmarks of the country, and of one Cairn Hill, which was an appointed meeting-place at which she was due that night. The house-mistress and Sweyn both exclaimed.
“It is three long miles away,” said Sweyn; “with no place for shelter but a wretched hut. Stay with us this night, and I will show you the way to-morrow.”
White Fell seemed to hesitate. “Three miles,” she said; “then I should be able to see or hear a signal.”
“I will look out,” said Sweyn; “then, if there be no signal, you must not leave us.”
He went to the door. Christian rose silently, and followed him out.
“Sweyn, do you know what she is?”
Sweyn, surprised at the vehement grasp, and low hoarse voice, made answer:
“She? Who? White Fell?”
“Yes.”
“She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”
“She is a Were-Wolf.”
Sweyn burst out laughing. “Are you mad?” he asked.
“No; here, see for yourself.”
Christian drew him out of the porch, pointing to the snow where the footmarks had been. Had been, for now they were not. Snow was falling fast, and every dint was blotted out.
“Well?” asked Sweyn.
“Had you come when I signed to you, you would have seen for yourself.”
“Seen what?”
“The footprints of a wolf leading up to the door; none leading away.”
It was impossible not to be startled by the tone alone, though it was hardly above a whisper. Sweyn eyed his brother anxiously, but in the darkness could make nothing of his