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