him to be the best wrestler, rider, dancer, singer. Only in speed
could he be surpassed, and in that only by his younger brother.
All others Sweyn could distance fairly; but Christian could outrun
him easily. Ay, he could keep pace with Sweyn's most breathless
burst, and laugh and talk the while. Christian took little pride
in his fleetness of foot, counting a man's legs to be the least
worthy of his members. He had no envy of his brother's athletic
superiority, though to several feats he had made a moderate
second. He loved as only a twin can love--proud of all that Sweyn
did, content with all that Sweyn was; humbly content also that his
own great love should not be so exceedingly returned, since he
knew himself to be so far less love-worthy.

Christian dared not, in the midst of women and children, launch
the horror that he knew into words. He waited to consult his
brother; but Sweyn did not, or would not, notice the signal he
made, and kept his face always turned towards White Fell.
Christian drew away from the hearth, unable to remain passive with
that dread upon him.

"Where is Tyr?" he said suddenly. Then, catching sight of the dog
in a distant corner, "Why is he chained there?"

"He flew at the stranger," one answered.

Christian's eyes glowed. "Yes?" he said, interrogatively.

"He was within an ace of having his brain knocked out."

"Tyr?"