As the afternoon wore on Sigurd could see their gaunt forms skulking among the trees, casting many a hungry sidelong glance that way, and licking their cruel jaws as foretaste of the wished-for meal.
And now Sigurd needed to stop his ears closer than ever against the voice which cried "Return!" and set his face still more steadfastly towards Niflheim.

For though his heart never faltered, his spirits drooped as another night closed in, and weary and oppressed he pushed onward.
The fairies no longer cheered him, nor could he smile again at the antics of the dwarfs.

The soft voice of one behind was all he heard, and the music of its tones was sad.

The voice before still cried "Onward," but it mingled dismally with the storm overhead and the wild and ever-increasing howling of the wolves.

The horse, too, seemed to share his master's trouble, for he stumbled forward spiritlessly, hanging his head and trembling at each approaching howl.
Nearer and nearer those cruel voices closed in around him, not one but half a score.