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.'"