The Were-Wolf
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.
White Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant fur loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it, whispering her name to himself, "White Fell, White Fell," then slid his arms round her neck, and kissed her—once—twice. She laughed delightedly, and kissed him again.
"The child plagues you?" said Sweyn.
"No, indeed," she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to seem disproportionate to the occasion.
Rol settled himself again on her lap, and began to unwind the bandage bound round his hand. He paused a little when he saw where the blood had
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