“Open, open; let me in!”

It was a man’s voice, and the door shook and rattled as a man’s strength beat against it.  Sweyn could feel the planks quivering, as on the instant his hand was upon the door, flinging it open, to face the blank porch, and beyond only snow and sky, and firs aslant in the wind.

He stood for a long minute with the open door in his hand.  The bitter wind swept in with its icy chill, but a deadlier chill of fear came swifter, and seemed to freeze the beating of hearts.  Sweyn stepped back to snatch up a great bearskin cloak.

“Sweyn, where are you going?”

“No farther than the porch, mother,” and he stepped out and closed the door.

He wrapped himself in the heavy fur, and leaning against the most sheltered wall of the porch, steeled his nerves to face the devil and all his works.  No sound of voices came from within; the most distinct sound was the crackle and roar of the fire.

It was bitterly cold.  His feet grew numb, but he forbore stamping them into warmth lest the sound should strike panic within; nor would he leave the porch, nor print a foot-mark on the untrodden white that declared so absolutely how no human voices and hands could have approached the door since snow fell two hours or more ago.  “When the wind drops there will be more snow,” thought Sweyn.

For the best part of an hour he kept his watch, and saw no living thing—­heard no unwonted sound.  “I will freeze here no longer,” he muttered, and re-entered.

One woman gave a half-suppressed scream as his hand was laid on the latch, and then a gasp of relief as he came in.  No one questioned him, only his mother said, in a tone of forced unconcern, “Could you not see Christian coming?” as though she were made anxious only by the absence of her younger son.  Hardly had Sweyn stamped near to the fire than clear knocking was heard at the door.  Tyr leapt from the hearth, his eyes red as the fire, his fangs showing white in the black jowl, his neck ridged and bristling; and overleaping Rol, ramped at the door, barking furiously.

Outside the door a clear mellow voice was calling.  Tyr’s bark made the words undistinguishable.

No one offered to stir towards the door before Sweyn.

He stalked down the room resolutely, lifted the latch, and swung back the door.

A white-robed woman glided in.

No wraith!  Living—­beautiful—­young.

Tyr leapt upon her.

Lithely she baulked the sharp fangs with folds of her long fur robe, and snatching from her girdle a small two-edged axe, whirled it up for a blow of defence.

Sweyn caught the dog by the collar, and dragged him off yelling and struggling.

The stranger stood in the doorway motionless, one foot set forward, one arm flung up, till the house-mistress hurried down the room; and Sweyn, relinquishing to others the furious Tyr, turned again to close the door, and offer excuse for so fierce a greeting.  Then she lowered her arm, slung the axe in its place at her waist, loosened the furs about her face, and shook over her shoulders the long white robe—­all as it were with the sway of one movement.