So Christian saw them as he entered.

He stood a moment.  After the starless darkness and the icy night air, and the fierce silent two hours’ race, his senses reeled on sudden entrance into warmth, and light, and the cheery hum of voices.  A sudden unforeseen anguish assailed him, as now first he entertained the possibility of being overmatched by her wiles and her daring, if at the approach of pure death she should start up at bay transformed to a terrible beast, and achieve a savage glut at the last.  He looked with horror and pity on the harmless, helpless folk, so unwitting of outrage to their comfort and security.  The dreadful Thing in their midst, that was veiled from their knowledge by womanly beauty, was a centre of pleasant interest.  There, before him, signally impressive, was poor old Trella, weakest and feeblest of all, in fond nearness.  And a moment might bring about the revelation of a monstrous horror—­a ghastly, deadly danger, set loose and at bay, in a circle of girls and women and careless defenceless men:  so hideous and terrible a thing as might crack the brain, or curdle the heart stone dead.

And he alone of the throng prepared!

[Illustration:  White Fell’s Escape]

For one breathing space he faltered, no longer than that, while over him swept the agony of compunction that yet could not make him surrender his purpose.

He alone?  Nay, but Tyr also; and he crossed to the dumb sole sharer of his knowledge.

So timeless is thought that a few seconds only lay between his lifting of the latch and his loosening of Tyr’s collar; but in those few seconds succeeding his first glance, as lightning-swift had been the impulses of others, their motion as quick and sure.  Sweyn’s vigilant eye had darted upon him, and instantly his every fibre was alert with hostile instinct; and, half divining, half incredulous, of Christian’s object in stooping to Tyr, he came hastily, wary, wrathful, resolute to oppose the malice of his wild-eyed brother.

But beyond Sweyn rose White Fell, blanching white as her furs, and with eyes grown fierce and wild.  She leapt down the room to the door, whirling her long robe closely to her.  “Hark!” she panted.  “The signal horn!  Hark, I must go!” as she snatched at the latch to be out and away.

For one precious moment Christian had hesitated on the half-loosened collar; for, except the womanly form were exchanged for the bestial, Tyr’s jaws would gnash to rags his honour of manhood.  Then he heard her voice, and turned—­too late.

As she tugged at the door, he sprang across grasping his flask, but Sweyn dashed between, and caught him back irresistibly, so that a most frantic effort only availed to wrench one arm free.  With that, on the impulse of sheer despair, he cast at her with all his force.  The door swung behind her, and the flask flew into fragments against it.  Then, as Sweyn’s grasp slackened, and he met the questioning astonishment of surrounding faces, with a hoarse inarticulate cry:  “God help us all!” he said.  “She is a Were-Wolf.”