She was a maiden, tall and very fair.  The fashion of her dress was strange, half masculine, yet not unwomanly.  A fine fur tunic, reaching but little below the knee, was all the skirt she wore; below were the cross-bound shoes and leggings that a hunter wears.  A white fur cap was set low upon the brows, and from its edge strips of fur fell lappet-wise about her shoulders; two of these at her entrance had been drawn forward and crossed about her throat, but now, loosened and thrust back, left unhidden long plaits of fair hair that lay forward on shoulder and breast, down to the ivory-studded girdle where the axe gleamed.

Sweyn and his mother led the stranger to the hearth without question or sign of curiosity, till she voluntarily told her tale of a long journey to distant kindred, a promised guide unmet, and signals and landmarks mistaken.

“Alone!” exclaimed Sweyn in astonishment.  “Have you journeyed thus far, a hundred leagues, alone?”

She answered “Yes” with a little smile.

“Over the hills and the wastes!  Why, the folk there are savage and wild as beasts.”

She dropped her hand upon her axe with a laugh of some scorn.

“I fear neither man nor beast; some few fear me.”  And then she told strange tales of fierce attack and defence, and of the bold free huntress life she had led.

Her words came a little slowly and deliberately, as though she spoke in a scarce familiar tongue; now and then she hesitated, and stopped in a phrase, as though for lack of some word.

She became the centre of a group of listeners.  The interest she excited dissipated, in some degree, the dread inspired by the mysterious voices.  There was nothing ominous about this young, bright, fair reality, though her aspect was strange.

Little Rol crept near, staring at the stranger with all his might.  Unnoticed, he softly stroked and patted a corner of her soft white robe that reached to the floor in ample folds.  He laid his cheek against it caressingly, and then edged up close to her knees.

“What is your name?” he asked.

The stranger’s smile and ready answer, as she looked down, saved Rol from the rebuke merited by his unmannerly question.

“My real name,” she said, “would be uncouth to your ears and tongue.  The folk of this country have given me another name, and from this” (she laid her hand on the fur robe) “they call me ‘White Fell.’”

Little Rol repeated it to himself, stroking and patting as before.  “White Fell, White Fell.”

The fair face, and soft, beautiful dress pleased Rol.  He knelt up, with his eyes on her face and an air of uncertain determination, like a robin’s on a doorstep, and plumped his elbows into her lap with a little gasp at his own audacity.

“Rol!” exclaimed his aunt; but, “Oh, let him!” said White Fell, smiling and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.

He advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the face of his aunt’s authority, climbed up on to her knees.  Her welcoming arms hindered any protest.  He nestled happily, fingering the axe head, the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at her throat, the plaits of fair hair; rubbing his head against the softness of her fur-clad shoulder, with a child’s full confidence in the kindness of beauty.