Eric Brighteyes by H. Rider Haggard (page 4)

“Say, Eric,” said the King, “have I not dealt well with thee?”

“Well, and overwell, lord.”

“Why, then, wouldst thou leave me? I have this in my mind–to bring thee to great honour. See, now, there is a fair lady in this court, and in her veins runs blood that even an Iceland viking might be proud to mate with. She has great lands, and, mayhap, she shall have more. Canst thou not find a home on them, thinkest thou, Brighteyes?”

“In Iceland only I am at home, lord,” said Eric.

Then the King was wroth, and bade him begone when it pleased him, and Eric bowed before him and went out.

Two days afterwards, while Eric was walking in the Palace gardens he met the Lady Elfrida face to face. She held white flowers in her hand, and she was fair to see and pale as the flowers she bore.

He greeted her, and, after a while, she spoke to him in a gentle voice: “They say that thou goest from England, Brighteyes?” she said.

“Yes, lady; I go,” he answered.

She looked on him once and twice and then burst out weeping. “Why goest thou hence to that cold land of thine?” she sobbed–“that hateful land of snow and ice! Is not England good enough for thee?”

“I am at home there, lady, and there my mother waits me.”

“‘There thy mother waits thee,’ Eric?–say, does a maid called Gudruda the Fair wait thee there also?”

“There is such a maid in Iceland,” said Eric.

“Yes; I know it–I know it all,” she answered, drying her tears, and of a sudden growing cold and proud; “Eric, thou art betrothed to this Gudruda; and, for thy welfare, somewhat overfaithful to thy troth. For hearken, Eric Brighteyes. I know this: that little luck shall come to thee from the maid Gudruda. It would become me ill to say more; nevertheless, this is true–that here, in England, good fortune waits thy hand, and there in Iceland such fortune as men mete to their foes. Knowest thou this?”

Eric looked at her and answered: “Lady,” he said, “men are not born of their own will, they live and do little that they will, they do and go, perchance, whither they would not. Yet it may happen to a man that one meets him whose hand he fain would hold, if it be but for an hour’s travel over icy ways; and it is better to hold that hand for this short hour than to wend his life through at a stranger’s side.”

“Perhaps there is wisdom in thy folly,” said the Lady Elfrida. “Still, I tell thee this: that no good luck waits thee there in Iceland.”

“It well may be,” said Eric: “my days have been stormy, and the gale is still brewing. But it is a poor heart that fears the storm. Better to sink; for, coward or hero, all must sink at last.”

“Say, Eric,” said the lady, “if that hand thou dost desire to hold is lost to thee, what then?”

“If that hand is cold in death, then henceforth I wend my ways alone.”

“And if it be held of another hand than thine?”

“Then I will journey back to England, lady, and here in this fair garden I may crave speech of thee again.”

They looked one on another. “Fare thee well, Eric!” said the Lady Elfrida. “Here in this garden we may talk again; and, if we talk no more–why, fare thee well! Days come and go; the swallow takes flight at winter, and lo! at spring it twitters round the eaves. And if it come not again, then farewell to that swallow. The world is a great house, Eric, and there is room for many swallows. But alas! for her who is left desolate–alas, alas!” And she turned and went.

It is told of this lady Elfrida that she became very wealthy and was much honoured for her gentleness and wisdom, and that, when she was old, she built a great church and named it Ericskirk. It is also told that, though many sought her in marriage, she wedded none.

XVI

HOW SWANHILD WALKED THE SEAS

Within two days afterwards, the Gudruda being bound for sea, Eric went up to bid farewell to the King. But Edmund was so angry with him because of his going that he would not see him. Thereon Eric took horse and rode down sadly from the Palace to the river-bank where the Gudruda lay. But when he was about to give the word to get out the oars, the King himself rode up, and with him men bearing costly gifts. Eric went ashore to speak with him.

“I am angry with thee, Brighteyes,” said Edmund, “yet it is not in my heart to let thee go without words and gifts of farewell. This only I ask of thee now, that, if things go not well with thee there, out in Iceland, thou wilt come back to me.”

“I will–that I promise thee, King,” said Eric, “for I shall never find a better lord.”

“Nor I a braver servant,” said the King. Then he gave him the gifts and kissed him before all men. To Skallagrim also he gave a good byrnie of Welsh steel coloured black.

Then Eric went aboard again and dropped down the river with the tide.

For five days all went well with them, the sea being calm and the winds light and favourable. But on the fifth night, as they sailed slowly along the coasts of East Anglia over against Yarmouth sands, the moon rose red and ringed and the sea fell dead calm.

“Yonder hangs a storm-lamp, lord,” said Skallagrim, pointing to the angry moon. “We shall soon be bailing, for the autumn gales draw near.”

“Wait till they come, then speak,” said Eric. “Thou croakest ever like a raven.”

“And ravens croak before foul weather,” answered Skallagrim, and just as he spoke a sudden gust of wind came up from the south-east and laid the Gudruda over. After this it came on to blow, and so fiercely that for whole days and nights their clothes were scarcely dry. They ran northwards before the storm and still northward, sighting no land and seeing no stars. And ever as they scudded on the gale grew fiercer, till at length the men were worn out with bailing and starved with wet and cold. Three of their number also were washed away by the seas, and all were in sorry plight.

It was the fourth night of the gale. Eric stood at the helm, and by him Skallagrim. They were alone, for their comrades were spent and lay beneath decks, waiting for death. The ship was half full of water, but they had no more strength to bail. Eric seemed grim and gaunt in the white light of the moon, and his long hair streamed about him wildly. Grimmer yet was Skallagrim as he clung to the shield-rail and stared across the deep.

“She rolls heavily, lord,” he shouted, “and the water gains fast.”

“Can the men bail no more?” asked Eric.

“Nay, they are outworn and wait for death.”

“They need not wait long,” said Eric. “What do they say of me?”

“Nothing.”

Then Eric groaned aloud. “It was my stubbornness that brought us to this pass,” he said; “I care little for myself, but it is ill that all should die for one man’s folly.”

“Grieve not, lord,” answered Skallagrim, “that is the world’s way, and there are worse things than to drown. Listen! methinks I hear the roar of breakers yonder,” and he pointed to the left.

“Breakers they surely are,” said Eric. “Now the end is near. But see, is not that land looming up on the right, or is it cloud?”

“It is land,” said Skallagrim, “and I am sure of this, that we run into a firth. Look, the seas boil like a hot spring. Hold on thy course, lord, perchance we may yet steer between rocks and land. Already the wind falls and the current lessens the seas.”

“Ay,” said Eric, “already the fog and rain come up,” and he pointed ahead where dense clouds gathered in the shape of a giant, whose head reached to the skies and moved towards them, hiding the moon.

Skallagrim looked, then spoke: “Now here, it seems, is witchwork. Say, lord, hast thou ever seen mist travel against wind as it travels now?”

“Never before,” said Eric, and as he spoke the light of the moon went out.

Swanhild, Atli’s wife, sat in beauty in her bower on Straumey Isle and looked with wide eyes towards the sea. It was midnight. None stirred in Atli’s hall, but still Swanhild looked out towards the sea.

Now she turned and spoke into the darkness, for there was no light in the bower save the light of her great eyes.

“Art thou there?” she said. “I have summoned thee thrice in the words thou knowest. Say, Toad, art there?”

“Ay, Swanhild the Fatherless! Swanhild, Groa’s daughter! Witch- mother’s witch-child! I am here. What is thy will with me?” piped a thin voice like the voice of a dying babe.

Swanhild shuddered a little and her eyes grew brighter–as bright as the eyes of a cat.

“This first,” she said: “that thou show thyself. Hideous as thou art, I had rather see thee, than speak with thee seeing thee not.”

“Mock not my form, lady,” answered the thin voice, “for it is as thou dost fashion it in thy thought. To the good I am fair as day; to the evil, foul as their heart. /Toad/ thou didst call me: look, now I come as a toad!”

Swanhild looked, and behold! a ring of the darkness grew white with light, and in it crouched a thing hideous to see. It was shaped as a great spotted toad, and on it was set a hag’s face, with white locks hanging down on either side. Its eyes were blood-red and sunken, black were its fangs, and its skin was dead yellow. It grinned horribly as Swanhild shrank from it, then spoke again:

“/Grey Wolf/ thou didst call me once, Swanhild, when thou wouldst have thrust Gudruda down Goldfoss gulf, and as a grey wolf I came, and gave thee counsel that thou tookest but ill. /Rat/ didst thou call me once, when thou wouldst save Brighteyes from the carles of Ospakar, and as a rat I came and in thy shape I walked the seas. /Toad/ thou callest me now, and as a toad I creep about thy feet. Name thy will, Swanhild, and I will name my price. But be swift, for there are other fair ladies whose wish I must do ere dawn.”

“Thou art hideous to look on!” said Swanhild, placing her hand before her eyes.

“Say not so, lady; say not so. Look at this face of mine. Knowest thou it not? It is thy mother’s–dead Groa lent it me. I took it from where she lies; and my toad’s skin I drew from thy spotted heart, Swanhild, and more hideous than I am shalt thou be in a day to come, as once I was more fair than thou art to-day.”

Swanhild opened her lips to shriek, but no sound came.

“Troll,” she whispered, “mock me not with lies, but hearken to my bidding: where sails Eric now?”

“Look out into the night, lady, and thou shalt see.”

Swanhild looked, and the ways of the darkness opened before her witch- sight. There at the mouth of Pentland Firth the Gudruda laboured heavily in the great seas, and by the tiller stood Eric, and with him Skallagrim.

“Seest thou thy love?” asked the Familiar.

“Yea,” she answered, “full clearly; he is worn with wind and sea, but more glorious than aforetime, and his hair is long. Say, what shall befall him if thou aidest not?”

“This, that he shall safely pass the Firth, for the gale falls, and come safely to Fareys, and from Fareys isles to Gudruda’s arms.”

“And what canst thou do, Goblin?”

“This: I can lure Eric’s ship to wreck, and give his comrades, all save Skallagrim, to Ran’s net, and bring him to thy arms, Swanhild, witch-mother’s witch-child!”

She hearkened. Her breast heaved and her eyes flashed.

“And thy price, Toad?”

“/Thou/ art the price, lady,” piped the goblin. “Thou shalt give thyself to me when thy day is done, and merrily will we sisters dwell in Hela’s halls, and merrily for ever will we fare about the earth o’ nights, doing such tasks as this task of thine, Swanhild, and working wicked woe till the last woe is worked on us. Art thou content?”

Swanhild thought. Twice her breath went from her lips in great sighs. Then she stood, pale and silent.

“Safely shall he sail the Firth,” piped the thin voice. “Safely shall he sit in Fareys. Safely shall he lie in white Gudruda’s arms–/hee! hee!/ Think of it, lady!”

Then Swanhild shook like a birth-tree in the gale, and her face grew ashen.

“I am content,” she said.

“/Hee! hee!/ Brave lady! She is content! Ah, we sisters shall be merry. Hearken: if I aid thee thus I may do no more. Thrice has the night-owl come at thy call–now it must wing away. Yet things will be as I have said; thine own wisdom shall guide the rest. Ere morn Brighteyes shall stand in Atli’s hall, ere spring he will be thy love, and ere autumn Gudruda shall sit on the high seat in the hall of Middalhof the bride of Ospakar. Draw nigh, give me thine arm, sister, that blood may seal our bargain.”

Swanhild drew near the toad, and, shuddering, stretched out her arm, and then and there the red blood ran, and there they sealed their sisterhood. And as the nameless deed was wrought, it seemed to Swanhild as though fire shot through her veins, and fire surged before her eyes, and in the fire a shape passed up weeping.

“It is done, Blood-sister,” piped the voice; “now I must away in thy form to be about thy tasks. Seat thee here before me–so. Now lay thy brow upon my brow–fear not, it was thy mother’s–life on death! curling locks on corpse hair! See, so we change–we change. Now thou art the Death-toad and I am Swanhild, Atli’s wife, who shall be Eric’s love.”

Then Swanhild knew that her beauty had entered into the foulness of the toad, and the foulness of the toad into her beauty, for there before her stood her own shape and here she crouched a toad upon the floor.

“Away to work, away!” said a soft low voice, her own voice speaking from her own body that stood before her, and lo! it was gone.

But Swanhild crouched, in the shape of a hag-headed toad, upon the ground in her bower of Atli’s hall, and felt wickedness and evil longings and hate boil and seethe within her heart. She looked out through her sunken horny eyes and she seemed to see strange sights. She saw Atli, her lord, dead upon the grass. She saw a woman asleep, and above her flashed a sword. She saw the hall of Middalhof red with blood. She saw a great gulf in a mountain’s heart, and men fell down it. And, last, she saw a war-ship sailing fast out on the sea, afire, and vanish there.

Now the witch-hag who wore Swanhild’s loveliness stood upon the cliffs of Straumey and tossed her white arms towards the north.

“Come, fog! come, sleet!” she cried. “Come, fog! come, sleet! Put out the moon and blind the eyes of Eric!” And as she called, the fog rose up like a giant and stretched his arms from shore to shore.

“Move, fog! beat, rain!” she cried. “Move and beat against the gale, and blind the eyes of Eric!”

And the fog moved on against the wind, and with it sleet and rain.

“Now I am afeared,” said Eric to Skallagrim, as they stood in darkness upon the ship: “the gale blows from behind us, and yet the mist drives fast in our faces. What comes now?”

“This is witch-work, lord,” answered Skallagrim, “and in such things no counsel can avail. Hold the tiller straight and drive on, say I. Methinks the gale lessens more and more.”

So they did for a little while, and all around them sounded the roar of breakers. Darker grew the sky and darker yet, till at the last, though they stood side by side, they could not see each other’s shapes.

“This is strange sailing,” said Eric. “I hear the roar of breakers as it were beneath the prow.”

“Lash the helm, lord, and let us go forward. If there are breakers, perhaps we shall see their foam through the blackness,” said Skallagrim.

Eric did so, and they crept forward on the starboard board right to the prow of the ship, and there Skallagrim peered into the fog and sleet.

“Lord,” he whispered presently, and his voice shook strangely, “what is that yonder on the waters? Seest thou aught?”

Eric stared and said, “By Odin! I see a shape of light like to the shape of a woman; it walks upon the waters towards us and the mist melts before it, and the sea grows calm beneath its feet.”

“I see that also!” said Skallagrim.

“She comes nigh!” gasped Eric. “See how swift she comes! By the dead, it is Swanhild’s shape! Look, Skallagrim! look how her eyes flame!– look how her hair streams upon the wind!”

“It is Swanhild, and we are fey!” quoth Skallagrim, and they ran back to the helm, where Skallagrim sank upon the deck in fear.

“See, Skallagrim, she glides before the Gudruda’s beak! she glides backwards and she points yonder–there to the right! Shall I put the helm down and follow her?”

“Nay, lord, nay; set no faith in witchcraft or evil will befall us.”

As he spoke a great gust of wind shook the ship, the music of the breakers roared in their ears, and the gleaming shape upon the waters tossed its arms wildly and pointed to the right.

“The breakers call ahead,” said Eric. “The shape points yonder, where I hear no sound of sea. Once before, thou mindest, Swanhild walked the waves to warn us and thereby saved us from the men of Ospakar. Ever she swore she loved me; now she is surely come in love to save us and all our comrades. Say, shall I put about? Look: once more she waves her arms and points,” and as he spoke he gripped the helm.

“I have no rede, lord,” said Skallagrim, “and I love not witch-work. We can die but once, and death is all around; be it as thou wilt.”

Eric put down the helm with all his might. The good ship answered, and her timbers groaned loudly, as though in woe, when the strain of the sea struck her abeam. Then once more she flew fast across the waters, and fast before her glided the wraith of Swanhild. Now it pointed here and now there, and as it pointed so Eric shaped his course. For a while the noise of breakers lessened, but now again came a thunder, like the thunder of waves smiting on a cliff, and about the sides of the Gudruda the waves hissed like snakes.

Suddenly the Shape threw up its arms and seemed to sink beneath the waves, while a sound like the sound of a great laugh went up from sea to sky.

“Now here is the end,” said Skallagrim, “and we are lured to doom.”

Ere ever the words had passed his lips the ship struck, and so fiercely that they were rolled upon the deck. Suddenly the sky grew clear, the moon shone out, and before them were cliffs and rocks, and behind them a great wave rushed on. From the hold of the ship there came a cry, for now their comrades were awake and they knew that death was here.

Eric gripped Skallagrim round the middle and looked aft. On rushed the wave, no such wave had he ever seen. Now it struck and the Gudruda burst asunder beneath the blow.

But Eric Brighteyes and Skallagrim Lambstail were lifted on its crest and knew no more.

Swanhild, crouching in hideous guise upon the ground in the bower of Atli’s hall, looked upon the visions that passed before her. Suddenly a woman’s shape, her own shape, was there.

“It is done, Blood-sister,” said a voice, her own voice. “Merrily I walked the waves, and oh, merry was the cry of Eric’s folk when Ran caught them in her net! Be thyself, again, Blood-sister–be fair as thou art foul; then arise, wake Atli thy lord, and go down to the sea’s lip by the southern cliffs and see what thou shalt find. We shall meet no more till all this game is played and another game is set,” and the shape of Swanhild crouched upon the floor before the hag-headed toad muttering “Pass! pass!”

Then Swanhild felt her flesh come back to her, and as it grew upon her so the shape of the Death-headed toad faded away.

“Farewell, Blood-sister!” piped a voice; “make merry as thou mayest, but merrier shall be our nights when thou hast gone a-sailing with Eric on the sea. Farewell! farewell! /Were-wolf/ thou didst call me once, and as a wolf I came. /Rat/ thou didst call me once, and as a rat I came. /Toad/ didst thou call me once, and as a toad I came. Say, at the last, what wilt thou call me and in what shape shall I come, Blood-sister? Till then farewell!”

And all was gone and all was still.

XVII

HOW ASMUND THE PRIEST WEDDED UNNA, THOROD’S DAUGHTER

Now the story goes back to Iceland.

When Brighteyes was gone, for a while Gudruda the Fair moved sadly about the stead, like one new-widowed. Then came tidings. Men told how Ospakar Blacktooth had waylaid Eric on the seas with two long ships, dragons of war, and how Eric had given him battle and sunk one dragon with great loss to Ospakar. They told also how Blacktooth’s other dragon, the Raven, had sailed away before the wind, and Eric had sailed after it in a rising gale. But of what befell these ships no news came for many a month, and it was rumoured that this had befallen them–that both had sunk in the gale, and that Eric was dead.

But Gudruda would not believe this. When Asmund the Priest, her father, asked her why she did not believe it, she answered that, had Eric been dead, her heart would surely have spoken to her of it. To this Asmund said that it might be so.

Hay-harvest being done, Asmund made ready for his wedding with Unna, Thorod’s daughter and Eric’s cousin.

Now it was agreed that the marriage-feast should be held at Middalhof; for Asmund wished to ask a great company to the wedding, and there was no place at Coldback to hold so many. Also some of the kin of Thorod, Unna’s father, were bidden to the feast from the east and north. At length all was prepared and the guests came in great companies, for no such feast had been made in this quarter for many years.

On the eve of the marriage Asmund spoke with Groa. The witch-wife had borne herself humbly since she was recovered from her sickness. She passed about the stead like a rat at night, speaking few words and with downcast eyes. She was busy also making all things ready for the feasting.

Now as Asmund went up the hall seeing that everything was in order, Groa drew near to him and touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Are things to thy mind, lord?” she said.

“Yes, Groa,” he answered, “more to my mind than to thine I fear.”

“Fear not, lord; thy will is my will.”

“Say, Groa, is it thy wish to bide here in Middalhof when Unna is my housewife?”

“It is my wish to serve thee as aforetime,” she answered softly, “if so be that Unna wills it.”

“That is her desire,” said Asmund and went his ways.

But Groa stood looking after him and her face was fierce and evil.

“While bane has virtue, while runes have power, and while hand has cunning, never, Unna, shalt thou take my place at Asmund’s side! Out of the water I came to thee, Asmund; into the water I go again. Unquiet shall I lie there–unquiet shall I wend through Hela’s halls; but Unna shall rest at Asmund’s side–in Asmund’s cairn!”

Then again she moved about the hall, making all things ready for the feast. But at midnight, when the light was low and folk slept, Groa rose, and, veiled in a black robe, with a basket in her hand, passed like a shadow through the mists that hang about the river’s edge, and in silence, always looking behind her, like one who fears a hidden foe, culled flowers of noisome plants that grow in the marsh. Her basket being filled, she passed round the stead to a hidden dell upon the mountain side. Here a man stood waiting, and near him burned a fire of turf. In his hand he held an iron-pot. It was Koll the Half- witted, Groa’s thrall.

“Are all things ready, Koll?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered; “but I like not these tasks of thine, mistress. Say now, what wouldst thou do with the fire and the pot?”

“This, then, Koll. I would brew a love-potion for Asmund the Priest as he has bidden me to do.”

“I have done many an ill deed for thee, mistress, but of all of them I love this the least,” said the thrall, doubtfully.

“I have done many a good deed for thee, Koll. It was I who saved thee from the Doom-stone, seeming to prove thee innocent–ay, even when thy back was stretched on it, because thou hadst slain a man in his sleep. Is it not so?”

“Yea, mistress.”

“And yet thou wast guilty, Koll. And I have given thee many good gifts, is it not so?”

“Yes, it is so.”

“Listen then: serve me this once and I will give thee one last gift– thy freedom, and with it two hundred in silver.”

Koll’s eyes glistened. “What must I do, mistress?”

“To-day at the wedding-feast it will be thy part to pour the cups while Asmund calls the toasts. Last of all, when men are merry, thou wilt mix that cup in which Asmund shall pledge Unna his wife and Unna must pledge Asmund. Now, when thou hast poured, thou shalt pass the cup to me, as I stand at the foot of the high seat, waiting to give the bride greeting on behalf of the serving-women of the household. Thou shalt hand the cup to me as though in error, and that is but a little thing to ask of thee.”

“A little thing indeed,” said Koll, staring at her, and pulling with his hand at his red hair, “yet I like it not. What if I say no, mistress?”

“Say no or speak of this and I will promise thee one thing only, thou knave, and it is, before winter comes, that the crows shall pick thy bones! Now, brave me, if thou darest,” and straightway Groa began to mutter some witch-words.

“Nay,” said Koll, holding up his hand as though to ward away a blow. “Curse me not: I will do as thou wilt. But when shall I touch the two hundred in silver?”

“I will give thee half before the feast begins, and half when it is ended, and with it freedom to go where thou wilt. And now leave me, and on thy life see that thou fail me not.”

“I have never failed thee yet,” said Koll, and went his ways.

Now Groa set the pot upon the fire, and, placing in it the herbs that she had gathered, poured water on them. Presently they began to boil and as they boiled she stirred them with a peeled stick and muttered spells over them. For long she sat in that dim and lonely place stirring the pot and muttering spells, till at length the brew was done.

She lifted the pot from the fire and smelt at it. Then drawing a phial from her robe she poured out the liquor and held it to the sky. The witch-water was white as milk, but presently it grew clear. She looked at it, then smiled evilly.

“Here is a love-draught for a queen–ah, a love-draught for a queen!” she said, and, still smiling, she placed the phial in her breast.

Then, having scattered the fire with her foot, Groa took the pot and threw it into a deep pool of water, where it could not be found readily, and crept back to the stead before men were awake.

Now the day wore on and all the company were gathered at the marriage- feast to the number of nearly two hundred. Unna sat in the high seat, and men thought her a bonny bride, and by her side sat Asmund the Priest. He was a hale, strong man to look on, though he had seen some three-score winters; but his mien was sad, and his heart heavy. He drank cup after cup to cheer him, but all without avail. For his thought sped back across the years and once more he seemed to see the face of Gudruda the Gentle as she lay dying, and to hear her voice when she foretold evil to him if he had aught to do with Groa the Witch-wife. And now it seemed to him that the evil was at hand, though whence it should come he knew not. He looked up. There Groa moved along the hall, ministering to the guests; but he saw as she moved that her eyes were always fixed, now on him and now on Unna. He remembered that curse also which Groa had called down upon him when he had told her that he was betrothed to Unna, and his heart grew cold with fear. “Now I will change my counsel,” Asmund said to himself: “Groa shall not stay here in this stead, for I will look no longer on that dark face of hers. She goes hence to-morrow.”

Not far from Asmund sat Björn, his son. As Gudruda the Fair, his sister, brought him mead he caught her by the sleeve, whispering in her ear. “Methinks our father is sad. What weighs upon his heart?”

“I know not,” said Gudruda, but as she spoke she looked first on Asmund, then at Groa.

“It is ill that Groa should stop here,” whispered Björn again.

“It is ill,” answered Gudruda, and glided away.

Asmund saw their talk and guessed its purport. Rousing himself he laughed aloud and called to Koll the Half-witted to pour the cups that he might name the toasts.

Koll filled, and, as Asmund called the toasts one by one, Koll handed the cups to him. Asmund drank deep of each, till at length his sorrow passed from him, and, together with all who sat there, he grew merry.

Last of all came the toast of the bride’s cup. But before Asmund called it, the women of the household drew near the high seat to welcome Unna, when she should have drunk. Gudruda stood foremost, and Groa was next to her.

Now Koll filled as before, and it was a great cup of gold that he filled.

Asmund rose to call the toast, and with him all who were in the hall. Koll brought up the cup, and handed it, not to Asmund, but to Groa; but there were few who noted this, for all were listening to Asmund’s toast and most of the guests were somewhat drunken.

“The cup,” cried Asmund–“give me the cup that I may drink.”

Then Groa started forward, and as she did so she seemed to stumble, so that for a moment her robe covered up the great bride-cup. Then she gathered herself together slowly, and, smiling, passed up the cup.

Asmund lifted it to his lips and drank deep. Then he turned and gave it to Unna his wife, but before she drank he kissed her on the lips.

Now while all men shouted such a welcome that the hall shook, and as Unna, smiling, drank from the cup, the eyes of Asmund fell upon Groa who stood beneath him, and lo! her eyes seemed to flame and her face was hideous as the face of a troll.

Asmund grew white and put his hand to his head, as though to think, then cried aloud:

“Drink not, Unna! the draught is drugged!” and he struck at the vessel with his hand.

He smote it indeed, and so hard that it flew from her hand far down the hall.

But Unna had already drunk deep.

“The draught is drugged!” Asmund cried, and pointed to Groa, while all men stood silent, not knowing what to do.

“The draught is drugged!” he cried a third time, “and that witch has drugged it!” And he began to tear at his breast.

Then Groa laughed so shrilly that men trembled to hear her.

“Yes, lord,” she screamed, “the draught is drugged, and Groa the Witch-wife hath drugged it! Ay, tear thy heart out, Asmund, and Unna, grow thou white as snow–soon, if my medicine has virtue, thou shalt be whiter yet! Hearken all men. Asmund the Priest is Swanhild’s father, and for many a year I have been Asmund’s mate. What did I tell thee, lord?–that I would see the two of you dead ere Unna should take my place!–ay, and on Gudruda the Fair, thy daughter, and Björn thy son, and Eric Brighteyes, Gudruda’s love, and many another man–on them too shall my curse fall! Tear thy heart out, Asmund! Unna, grow thou white as snow! The draught is drugged and Groa, Ran’s gift! Groa the Witch-Wife! Groa, Asmund’s love! hath drugged it!”

And ere ever a man might lift a hand to stay her Groa glided past the high seat and was gone.

For a space all stood silent. Asmund ceased clutching at his breast. Rising he spoke heavily:

“Now I learn that sin is a stone to smite him who hurled it. Gudruda the Gentle spoke sooth when she warned me against this woman. /New wed, new dead!/ Unna, fare thee well!”

And straightway Asmund fell down and died there by the high seat in his own hall.

Unna gazed at him with ashen face. Then, plucking at her bosom she sprang from the dais and rushed along the hall, screaming. Men made way for her, and at the door she also fell dead.

This then was the end of Asmund Asmundson the Priest, and Unna, Thorod’s daughter, Eric’s cousin, his new-made wife.

For a moment there was silence in the hall. But before the echoes of Unna’s screams had died away, Björn cried aloud:

“The witch! where is the witch?”

Then with a yell of rage, men leaped to their feet, seizing their weapons, and rushed from the stead. Out they ran. There, on the hill- side far above them, a black shape climbed and leapt swiftly. They gave tongue like dogs set upon a wolf and sped up the hill.

They gained the crest of the hill, and now they were at Goldfoss brink. Lo! the witch-wife had crossed the bed of the torrent, for little rain had fallen and the river was low. She stood on Sheep- saddle, the water running from her robes. On Sheep-saddle she stood and cursed them.

Björn took a bow and set a shaft upon the string. He drew it and the arrow sung through the air and smote her, speeding through her heart. With a cry Groa threw up her arms.

Then down she plunged. She fell on Wolf’s Fang, where Eric once had stood and, bouncing thence, rushed to the boiling deeps below and was no more seen for ever.

Thus, then, did Asmund the Priest wed Unna, Thorod’s daughter, and this was the end of the feasting.

Thereafter Björn, Asmund’s son, ruled at Middalhof, and was Priest in his place. He sought for Koll the Half-witted to kill him, but Koll took the fells, and after many months he found passage in a ship that was bound for Scotland.

Now Björn was a hard man and a greedy. He was no friend to Eric Brighteyes, and always pressed it on Gudruda that she should wed Ospakar Blacktooth. But to this counsel Gudruda would not listen, for day and night she thought upon her love. Next summer there came tidings that Eric was safe in Ireland, and men spoke of his deeds, and of how he and Skallagrim had swept the ship of Ospakar single-handed. Now after these tidings, for a while Gudruda walked singing through the meads, and no flower that grew in them was half so fair as she.

That summer also Ospakar Blacktooth met Björn, Asmund’s son, at the Thing, and they talked much together in secret.

XVIII

HOW EARL ATLI FOUND ERIC AND SKALLAGRIM ON THE SOUTHERN ROCKS OF STRAUMEY ISLE

Swanhild, robed in white, as though new risen from sleep, stood, candle in hand, by the bed of Atli the Earl, her lord, crying “Awake!”

“What passes now?” said Atli, lifting himself upon his arm. “What passes, Swanhild, and why dost thou ever wander alone at nights, looking so strangely? I love not thy dark witch-ways, Swanhild, and I was wed to thee in an ill hour, wife who art no wife.”

“In an ill hour indeed, Earl Atli,” she answered, “an ill hour for thee and me, for, as thou hast said, eld and youth are strange yokefellows and pull different paths. Arise now, Earl, for I have dreamed a dream.”

“Tell it to me on the morrow, then,” quoth Atli; “there is small joyousness in thy dreams, that always point to evil, and I must bear enough evil of late.”

“Nay, lord, my rede may not be put aside so. Listen now: I have dreamed that a great dragon of war has been cast away upon Straumey’s south-western rocks. The cries of those who drowned rang in my ears. But I thought that some came living to the shore, and lie there senseless, to perish of the cold. Arise, therefore, take men and go down to the rocks.”

“I will go at daybreak,” said Atli, letting his head fall upon the pillow. “I have little faith in such visions, and it is too late for ships of war to try the passage of the Firth.”

“Arise, I say,” answered Swanhild sternly, “and do my bidding, else I will myself go to search the rocks.”

Then Atli rose grumbling, and shook the heavy sleep from his eyes: for of all living folk he most feared Swanhild his wife. He donned his garments, threw a thick cloak about him, and, going to the hall where men snored around the dying fires, for the night was bitter, he awoke some of them. Now among those men whom he called was Hall of Lithdale, Hall the mate who had cut the grapnel-chain. For this Hall, fearing to return to Iceland, had come hither saying that he had been wounded off Fareys, in the great fight between Eric and Ospakar’s men, and left there to grow well of his hurt or die. Then Atli, not knowing that the carle lied, had bid him welcome for Eric’s sake, for he still loved Eric above all men.

But Hall loved not labour and nightfarings to search for shipwrecked men of whom the Lady Swanhild had chanced to dream. So he turned himself upon his side and slept again. Still, certain of Atli’s folk rose at his bidding, and they went together down to the south-western rocks.

But Swanhild, a cloak thrown over her night-gear, sat herself in the high seat of the hall and fixing her eyes, now upon the dying fires and now upon the blood-marks in her arm, waited in silence. The night was cold and windy, but the moon shone bright, and by its light Atli and his people made their way to the south-western rocks, on which the sea beat madly.

“What lies yonder?” said Atli, pointing to some black things that lay beneath them upon the rock, cast there by the waves. A man climbed down the cliff’s side that is here as though it were cut in steps, and then cried aloud:

“A ship’s mast, new broken, lord.”

“It seems that Swanhild dreams true,” muttered Atli; “but I am sure of this: that none have come ashore alive in such a sea.”

Presently the man who searched the rocks below cried aloud again:

“Here lie two great men, locked in each other’s arms. They seem to be dead.”

Now all the men climb down the slippery rocks as best they may, though the spray wets them, and with them goes Atli. The Earl is a brisk man, though old in years, and he comes first to where the two lie. He who was undermost lay upon his back, but his face is hid by the thick golden hair that flowed across it.

“Man’s body indeed, but woman’s locks,” said Atli as he put out his hand and drew the hair away, so that the light of the moon fell on the face beneath.

He looked, then staggered back against the rock.

“By Thor!” he cried, “here lies the corpse of Eric Brighteyes!” and Atli wrung his hands and wept, for he loved Eric much.

“Be not so sure that the men are dead, Earl,” said one, “I thought I saw yon great carle move but now.”

“He is Skallagrim Lambstail, Eric’s Death-shadow,” said Atli again. “Up with them, lads–see, yonder lies a plank–and away to the hall. I will give twenty in silver to each of you if Eric lives,” and he unclasped his cloak and threw it over both of them.

Then with much labour they loosed the grip of the two men one from the other, and they set Skallagrim on the plank. But eight men bore Eric up the cliff between them, and the task was not light, though the Earl held his head, from which the golden hair hung like seaweed from a rock.

At length they came to the hall and carried them in. Swanhild, seeing them come, moved down from the high seat.

“Bring lamps, and pile up the fires,” cried Atli. “A strange thing has come to pass, Swanhild, and thou dost dream wisely, indeed, for here we have Eric Brighteyes and Skallagrim Lambstail. They were locked like lovers in each other’s arms, but I know not if they are dead or living.”

Now Swanhild started and came on swiftly. Had the Familiar tricked her and had she paid the price for nothing? Was Eric taken from Gudruda and given to her indeed–but given dead? She bent over him, gazing keenly on his face. Then she spoke.

“He is not dead but senseless. Bring dry clothes, and make water hot,” and, kneeling down, she loosed Eric’s helm and harness and ungirded Whitefire from his side.

For long Swanhild and Atli tended Eric at one fire, and the serving women tended Skallagrim at the other. Presently there came a cry that Skallagrim stirred, and Atli with others ran to see. At this moment also the eyes of Eric were unsealed, and Swanhild saw them looking at her dimly from beneath. Moved to it by her passion and her joy that he yet lived, Swanhild let her face fall till his was hidden in her unbound hair, and kissed him upon the lips. Eric shut his eyes again, sighing heavily, and presently he was asleep. They bore him to a bed and heaped warm wrappings upon him. At daybreak he woke, and Atli, who sat watching at his side, gave him hot mead to drink.

“Do I dream?” said Eric, “or is it Earl Atli who tends me, and did I but now see the face of Swanhild bending over me?”

“It is no dream, Eric, but the truth. Thou hast been cast away here on my isle of Straumey.”

“And Skallagrim–where is Skallagrim?”

“Skallagrim lives–fear not!”

“And my comrades, how went it with them?”

“But ill, Eric. Ran has them all. Now sleep!”

Eric groaned aloud. “I had rather died also than live to hear such heavy tidings,” he said. “Witch-work! witch-work! and that fair witch- face wrought it.” And once again he slept, nor did he wake till the sun was high. But Atli could make nothing of his words.

When Swanhild left the side of Eric she met Hall of Lithdale face to face and his looks were troubled.

“Say, lady,” he asked, “will Brighteyes live?”

“Grieve not, Hall,” she answered, “Eric will surely live and he will be glad to find a messmate here to greet him, having left so many yonder,” and she pointed to the sea.

“I shall not be glad,” said Hall, letting his eyes fall.

“Why not, Hall? Fearest thou Skallagrim? or hast thou done ill by Eric?”

“Ay, lady, I fear Skallagrim, for he swore to slay me, and that kind of promise he ever keeps. Also, if the truth must out, I have not dealt altogether well with Eric, and of all men I least wish to talk with him.”

“Speak on,” she said.

Then, being forced to it, Hall told her something of the tale of the cutting of the cable, being careful to put another colour on it.

“Now it seems that thou art a coward, Hall,” Swanhild said when he had done, “and I scarcely looked for that in thee,” for she had not been deceived by the glozing of his speech. “It will be bad for thee to meet Eric and Skallagrim, and this is my counsel: that thou goest hence before they wake, for they will sit this winter here in Atli’s hall.”

“And whither shall I go, lady?”

Swanhild gazed on him, and as she did so a dark thought came into her heart: here was a knave who might serve her ends.

“Hall,” she said, “thou art an Icelander, and I have known of thee from a child, and therefore I wish to serve thee in thy strait, though thou deservest it little. See now, Atli the Earl has a farm on the mainland not two hours’ ride from the sea. Thither thou shalt go, if thou art wise, and thou shalt sit there this winter and be hidden from Eric and Skallagrim. Nay, thank me not, but listen: it may chance that I shall have a service for thee to do before spring is come.”

“Lady, I shall wait upon thy word,” said Hall.

“Good. Now, so soon as it is light, I will find a man to sail with thee across the Firth, for the sea falls, and bear my message to the steward at Atli’s farm. Also if thou needest faring-money thou shalt have it. Farewell.”

Thus then did Hall fly before Eric and Skallagrim.

On the morrow Eric and Skallagrim arose, sick and bruised indeed, but not at all harmed, and went down to the shore. There they found many dead men of their company, but never a one in whom the breath of life remained.

Skallagrim looked at Eric and spoke: “Last night the mist came up against the wind: last night we saw Swanhild’s wraith upon the waves, and there is the path it showed, and there”–and he pointed to the dead men–“is the witch-seed’s flower. Now to-day we sit in Atli’s hall and here we must stay this winter at Swanhild’s side, and in all this there lies a riddle that I cannot read.”

But Eric shook his head, making no answer. Then, leaving Skallagrim with the dead, he turned, and striding back alone towards the hall, sat down on a rock in the home meadows and, covering his face with his hands, wept for his comrades.

As he wept Swanhild came to him, for she had seen him from afar, and touched him gently on the arm.

“Why weepest thou, Eric?” she said.

“I weep for the dead, Swanhild,” he answered.

“Weep not for the dead–they are at peace; if thou must weep, weep for the living. Nay, weep not at all; rejoice rather that thou art here to mourn. Hast thou no word of greeting for me who have not heard thy voice these many months?”

“How shall I greet thee, Swanhild, who would never have seen thy face again if I might have had my will? Knowest thou that yesternight, as we laboured in yonder Firth, we saw a shape walking the waters to lead us to our doom? How shall I greet thee, Swanhild, who art a witch and evil?”

“And knowest thou, Eric, that yesternight I woke from sleep, having dreamed that thou didst lie upon the shore, and thus I saved thee alive, as perchance I have saved thee aforetime? If thou didst see a shape walking the waters it was that shape which led thee here. Hadst thou sailed on, not only those thou mournest, but Skallagrim and thou thyself had now been numbered with the lost.”

“Better so than thus,” said Brighteyes. “Knowest thou also, Swanhild, that when last night my life came back again in Atli’s hall, methought that Atli’s wife leaned over me and kissed me on the lips? That was an ill dream, Swanhild.”

“Some had found it none so ill, Eric,” she made answer, looking on him strangely. “Still, it was but a dream. Thou didst dream that Atli’s wife breathed back the breath of life into thy pale lips–be sure of it thou didst but dream. Ah, Eric, fear me no more; forget the evil that I have wrought in the blindness and folly of my youth. Now things are otherwise with me. Now I am a wedded wife and faithful hearted to my lord. Now, if I still love thee, it is with a sister’s love. Therefore forget my sins, remember only that as children we played upon the Iceland fells. Remember that, as boy and girl, we rode along the marshes, while the sea-mews clamoured round our heads. The world is cold, Eric, and few are the friends we find in it; many are already gone, and soon the friendless dark draws near. So put me not away, my brother and my friend; but, for a little space, whilst thou art here in Atli’s hall, let us walk hand in hand as we walked long years ago in Iceland, gathering up the fifa-bloom, and watching the midnight shadows creep up the icy jökul’s crest.”

Thus Swanhild spoke to him most sweetly, in a low voice of music, while the tears gathered in her eyes, talking ever of Iceland that he loved, and of days long dead, till Eric’s heart softened in him.

“Almost do I believe thee, Swanhild,” he said, stretching out his hand; “but I know thus: that thou art never twice in the same mood, and that is beyond my measuring. Thou hast done much evil and thou hast striven to do more; also I love not those who seem to walk the seas o’ nights. Still, hold thou to this last saying of thine and there shall be peace between us while I bide here.”

She touched his hand humbly and turned to go. But as she went Eric spoke again: “Say, Swanhild, hast thou tidings from Iceland yonder? I have heard no word of Asmund or of Gudruda for two long years and more.”

She stood still, and a dark shadow that he could not see flitted across her face.

“I have few tidings, Eric,” she said, turning, “and those few, if I may trust them, bad enough. For this is the rumour that I have heard: that Asmund the Priest, my father, is dead; that Groa, my mother, is dead–how, I know not; and, lastly, that Gudruda the Fair, thy love, is betrothed to Ospakar Blacktooth and weds him in the spring.”

Now Eric sprang up with an oath and grasped the hilt of Whitefire. Then he sat down again upon the stone and covered his face with his hands.

“Grieve not, Eric,” she said gently; “I put no faith in this news, for rumour, like the black-backed gull, often changes colour in its flight across the seas. Also I had it but at fifth hand. I am sure of this, at least, that Gudruda will never forsake thee without a cause.”

“It shall go ill with Ospakar if this be true,” said Eric, smiling grimly, “for Whitefire is yet left me and with it one true friend.”

“Run not to meet the evil, Eric. Thou shalt come to Iceland with the summer flowers and find Gudruda faithful and yet fairer than of yore. Knowest thou that Hall of Lithdale, who was thy mate, has sat here these two months? He is gone but this morning, I know not whither, leaving a message that he returns no more.”

“He did well to go,” said Eric, and he told her how Hall had cut the cable.

“Ay, well indeed,” answered Swanhild. “Had Atli known this he would have scourged Hall hence with rods of seaweed. And now, Eric, I desire to ask thee one more thing: why wearest thou thy hair long like a woman’s? Indeed, few women have such hair as thine is now.”

“For this cause, Swanhild: I swore to Gudruda that none should cut my hair till she cut it once more. It is a great burden to me surely, for never did hair grow so fast and strong as mine, and once in a fray I was held fast by it and went near to the losing of my life. Still, I will keep the oath even if it grows on to my feet,” and he laughed a little and shook back his golden locks.

Swanhild smiled also and, turning, went. But when her face was hidden from him she smiled no more.

“As I live,” she said in her heart, “before spring rains fall I again will cause thee to break this oath, Eric. Ay, I will cut a lock of that bright hair of thine and send it for a love-token to Gudruda.”

But Eric still sat upon the rock thinking. Swanhild had set an evil seed of doubt in his heart, and already it put forth roots. What if the tale were true? What if Gudruda had given herself to Ospakar? Well, if so–she should soon be a widow, that he swore.

Then he rose, and stalked grimly towards the hall.

XIX

HOW KOLL THE HALF-WITTED BROUGHT TIDINGS FROM ICELAND

Presently as Eric walked he met Atli the Earl seeking him. Atli greeted him.

“I have seen strange things, Eric,” he said, “but none more strange than this coming of thine and the manner of it. Swanhild is foresighted, and that was a doom-dream of hers.”

“I think her foresighted also,” said Eric. “And now, Earl, knowest thou this: that little good can come to thee at the hands of one whom thou hast saved from the sea.”

“I set no faith in such old wives’ tales,” answered Atli. “Here thou art come, and it is my will that thou shouldest sit here. At the least, I will give thee no help to go hence.”

“Then we must bide in Straumey, it seems,” said Eric: “for of all my goods and gear this alone is left me,” and he looked at Whitefire.

“Thou hast still a gold ring or two upon thy arm,” answered the Earl, laughing. “But surely, Eric, thou wouldst not begone?”

“I know not, Earl. Listen: it is well that I should be plain with thee. Once, before thou didst wed Swanhild, she had another mind.”

“I have heard something of that, and I have guessed more, Brighteyes; but methinks Swanhild is little given to gadding now. She is as cold as ice, and no good wife for any man,” and Atli sighed, “‘Snow melts not if sun shines not,’ so runs the saw. Thou art an honest man, Eric, and no whisperer in the ears of others’ wives.”

“I am not minded indeed to do thee such harm, Earl, but this thou knowest: that woman’s guile and beauty are swords few shields can brook. Now I have spoken–and they are hard words to speak–be it as thou wilt.”

“It is my will that thou shouldest sit here this winter, Eric. Had I my way, indeed, never wouldest thou sit elsewhere. Listen: things have not gone well with me of late. Age hath a grip of me, and foes rise up against one who has no sons. That was an ill marriage, too, which I made with Swanhild yonder: for she loves me not, and I have found no luck since first I saw her face. Moreover, it is in my mind that my days are almost sped. Swanhild has already foretold my death, and, as thou knowest well, she is foresighted. So I pray thee, Eric, bide thou here while thou mayest, for I would have thee at my side.”

“It shall be as thou wilt, Earl,” said Eric.

So Eric Brighteyes and Skallagrim Lambstail sat that winter in the hall of Atli the Earl at Straumey. For many weeks all things went well and Eric forgot his fears. Swanhild was gentle to him and kindly. She loved much to talk with him, even of Gudruda her rival; but no word of love passed her lips. Nevertheless, she did but bide her time, for when she struck she determined to strike home. Atli and Eric were ever side by side, and Eric gave the Earl much good counsel. He promised to do this also, for now, being simple-minded, his doubts had passed and he had no more fear of Swanhild. On the mainland lived a certain chief who had seized large lands of Atli’s, and held them for a year or more. Now Eric gave his word that, before he sailed for Iceland in the early summer, he would go up against this man and drive him from the lands, if he could. For Brighteyes might not come to Iceland till hard upon midsummer, when his three years of outlawry were spent.

The winter wore away and the spring came. Then Atli gathered his men and went with Eric in boats to where the chief dwelt who held his lands. There they fell on him and there was a fierce fight. But in the end the man was slain by Skallagrim, and Eric did great deeds, as was his wont. Now in this fray Eric was wounded in the foot by a spear, so that he must be borne back to Straumey, and he lay there in the hall for many days. Swanhild nursed him, and most days he sat talking with her in her bower.

When Eric was nearly healed of his hurt, the Earl went with all his people to a certain island of the Orkneys to gather scat[*] that was unpaid, and Skallagrim went with him. But Eric did not go, because of his hurt, fearing lest the wound should open if he walked overmuch. Thus it came to pass that, except for some women, he was left almost alone with Swanhild.

[*] Tribute.

Now, when Atli had been gone three days, it chanced on an afternoon that Swanhild heard how a man from Iceland sought speech with her. She bade them bring him in to where she was alone in her bower, for Eric was not there, having gone down to the sea to fish.

The man came and she knew him at once for Koll the Half-witted, who had been her mother Groa’s thrall. On his shoulders was the cloak that Ospakar Blacktooth had given him; it was much torn now, and he had a worn and hungry look.

“Whence comest thou, Koll?” she asked, “and what are thy tidings?”

“From Scotland last, lady, where I sat this winter; before that, from Iceland. As for my tidings, they are heavy, if thou hast not heard them. Asmund the Priest is dead, and dead is Unna his wife, poisoned by thy mother, Groa, at their marriage-feast. Dead, too, is thy mother, Groa. Björn, Asmund’s son, shot her with an arrow, and she lies in Goldfoss pool.”

Now Swanhild hid her face for a while in her hands. Then she lifted it and it was white to see. “Speakest thou truth, fox? If thou liest, this I swear to thee–thy tongue shall be dragged from thee by the roots!”

“I speak the truth, lady,” he answered. But still he spoke not all the truth, for he said nothing of the part which he had played in the deaths of Asmund and Unna. Then he told her of the manner of their end.

Swanhild listened silently–then said:

“What news of Gudruda, Asmund’s daughter? Is she wed?”

“Nay, lady. Folk spoke of her and Ospakar, that was all.”

“Hearken, Koll,” said Swanhild, “bearing such heavy tidings, canst thou not weight the ship a little more? Eric Brighteyes is here. Canst thou not swear to him that, when thou didst leave Iceland it was said without question that Gudruda had betrothed herself to Ospakar, and that the wedding-feast was set for this last Yule? Thou hast a hungry look, Koll, and methinks that things have not gone altogether well with thee of late. Now, if thou canst so charge thy memory, thou shalt lose little by it. But, if thou canst not, then thou goest hence from Straumey with never a luck-penny in thy purse, and never a sup to stay thy stomach with.”

Now of all things Koll least desired to be sent from Straumey; for, though Swanhild did not know it, he was sought for on the mainland as a thief.

“That I may do, lady,” he said, looking at her cunningly. “Now I remember that Gudruda the Fair charged me with a certain message for Eric Brighteyes, if I should chance to see him as I journeyed.”

Then Swanhild, Atli’s wife, and Koll the Half-witted talked long and earnestly together.

At nightfall Eric came in from his fishing. His heart was light, for the time drew near when he should sail for home, and he did not think on evil. For now he feared Swanhild no longer, and, no fresh tidings having come from Iceland about Ospakar and Gudruda, he had almost put the matter from his mind. On he walked to the hall, limping somewhat from his wound, but singing as he came, and bearing his fish slung upon a pole.

At the men’s door of the hall a woman stood waiting. She told Eric that the lady Swanhild would speak with him in her bower. Thither he went and knocked. Getting no answer he knocked again, then entered.

Swanhild sat on a couch. She was weeping, and her hair fell about her face.

“What now, Swanhild?” he said.

She looked up heavily. “Ill news for thee and me, Eric. Koll, who was my mother’s thrall, has come hither from Iceland, and these are his tidings: that Asmund is dead, and Unna, thy cousin, Thorod of Greenfell’s daughter, is dead, and my mother Groa is dead also.”

“Heavy tidings, truly!” said Eric; “and what of Gudruda, is she also dead?”

“Nay, Eric she is wed–wed to Ospakar.”

Now Eric reeled against the wall, clutching it, and for a space all things swam round him. “Where is this Koll?” he gasped. “Send me Koll hither.”

Presently he came, and Eric questioned him coldly and calmly. But Koll could lie full well. It is said that in his day there was no one in Iceland who could lie so well as Koll the Half-witted. He told Eric how it was said that Gudruda was plighted to Ospakar, and how the match had been agreed on at the Althing in the summer that was gone (and indeed there had been some such talk), and how that the feast was to be at Middalhof on last Yule Day.

“Is that all thy tidings?” said Eric. “If so, I give no heed to them: for ever, Koll, I have known thee for a liar!”

“Nay, Eric, it is not all,” answered Koll. “As it chanced, two days before the ship in which I sailed was bound, I saw Gudruda the Fair. Then she asked me whither I was going, and I told her that I would journey to London, where men said thou wert, and asked her if she would send a message. Then she alighted from her horse, Blackmane, and spoke with me apart. ‘Koll,’ she said, ‘it well may happen that thou wilt see Eric Brighteyes in London town. Now, if thou seest him, I charge thee straightly tell him this. Tell him that my father is dead, and my brother Björn, who rules in his place, is a hard man, and has ever urged me on to wed Ospakar, till at last, having no choice, I have consented to it. And say to Eric that I grieve much and sorely, and that, though we twain should never meet more, yet I shall always hold his memory dear.'”

“It is not like Gudruda to speak thus,” said Eric: “she had ever a stout heart and these are craven words. Koll, I hold that thou liest; and, if indeed I find it so, I’ll wring the head from off thee!”

“Nay, Eric, I lie not. Wherefore should I lie? Hearken: thou hast not heard all my tale. When the lady Gudruda had made an end of speaking she drew something from her breast and gave it me, saying: ‘Give this to Eric, in witness of my words.'”

“Show me the token,” said Eric.

Now, many years ago, when they were yet boy and girl, it chanced that Eric had given to Gudruda the half of an ancient gold piece that he had found upon the shore. He had given her half, and half he had kept, wearing it next his heart. But he knew not this, for she feared to tell him, that Gudruda had lost her half. Nor indeed had she lost it, for Swanhild had taken the love-token and hidden it away. Now she brought it forth for Koll to build his lies upon.

Then Koll drew out the half-piece from a leather purse and passed it to him. Eric plunged his hand into his breast and found his half. He placed the two side by side, while Swanhild watched him. Lo! they fitted well.

Then Eric laughed aloud, a hard and bitter laugh. “There will be slaying,” he cried, “before all this tale is told. Take thy fee and begone, thou messenger of ill,” and he cast the broken piece at Koll. “For once thou hast spoken the truth.”

Koll stooped, found the gold and went, leaving Brighteyes and Swanhild face to face.

He hid his brow in his arms and groaned aloud. Softly Swanhild crept up to him–softly she drew his hands away, holding them between her own.

“Heavy tidings, Eric,” she said, “heavy tidings for thee and me! She is a murderess who gave me birth and she has slain my own father–my father and thy cousin Unna also. Gudruda is a traitress, a traitress fair and false. I did ill to be born of such a woman; thou didst ill to put thy faith in such a woman. Together let us weep, for our woe is equal.”

“Ay, let us weep together,” Eric answered. “Nay, why should we weep? Together let us be merry, for we know the worst. All words are said– all hopes are sped! Let us be merry, then, for now we have no more tidings to fear.”

“Ay,” Swanhild answered, looking on him darkly, “we will be merry and laugh our sorrows down. Ah! thou foolish Eric, under what unlucky star wast thou born that thou knewest not true from false?” and she called the serving-women, bidding them bring food and wine.

Now Eric sat alone with Swanhild in her bower and made pretence to eat. But he could eat little, though he drank deep of the southern wine. Close beside him sat Swanhild, filling his cup. She was wondrous fair that night, and it seemed to Eric that her eyes gleamed like stars. Sweetly she spoke also and wisely. She told strange tales and she sang strange songs, and ever her eyes shone more and more, and ever she crept closer to him. Eric’s brain was afire, though his heart was cold and dead. He laughed loud and mightily, he told great tales of deeds that he had done, growing boastful in his folly, and still Swanhild’s eyes shone more and more, and still she crept closer, wooing him in many ways.

Now of a sudden Eric thought of his friend, Earl Atli, and his mind grew clear.

“This may not be, Swanhild,” he said. “Yet I would that I had loved thee from the first, and not the false Gudruda: for, with all thy dark ways, at least thou art better than she.”

“Thou speakest wisely, Eric,” Swanhild answered, though she meant not that he should go. “The Norns have appointed us an evil fate, giving me as wife to an old man whom I do not love, and thee for a lover to a woman who has betrayed thee. Ah, Eric Brighteyes, thou foolish Eric! why knewest thou not the false from the true while yet there was time? Now are all words said and all things done–nor can they be undone. Go hence, Eric, ere ill come of it; but, before thou goest, drink one cup of parting, and then farewell.”

And she slipped from him and filled the cup, mixing in it a certain love-portion that she had made ready.

“Give it me that I may swear an oath on it,” said Eric.

Swanhild gave him the cup and stood before him, watching him.

“Hearken,” he said: “I swear this, that before snow falls again in Iceland I will see Ospakar dead at my feet or lie dead at the feet of Ospakar.”

“Well spoken, Eric,” Swanhild answered. “Now, before thou drinkest, grant me one little boon. It is but a woman’s fancy, and thou canst scarce deny me. The years will be long when thou art gone, for from this night it is best that we should meet no more, and I would keep something of thee to call back thy memory and the memories of our youth when thou hast passed away and I grow old.”

“What wouldst have then, Swanhild? I have nothing left to give, except Whitefire alone.”

“I do not ask Whitefire, Eric, though Whitefire shall kiss the gift. I ask nothing but one tress of that golden hair of thine.”

“Once I swore that none should touch my hair again except Gudruda’s self.”

“It will grow long, then, Eric, for now Gudruda tends black locks and thinks little on golden. Broken are all oaths.”

Eric groaned. “All oaths are broken in sooth,” he said. “Have then thy will;” and, loosing the peace-strings, he drew Whitefire from its sheath and gave her the great war-sword.

Swanhild took it by the hilt, and, lifting a tress of Eric’s yellow hair, she shore through it deftly with Whitefire’s razor-edge, smiling as she shore. With the same war-blade on which Eric and Gudruda had pledged their troth, did Swanhild cut the locks that Eric had sworn no hand should clip except Gudruda’s.

He took back the sword and sheathed it, and, knotting the long tress, Swanhild hid it in her bosom.

“Now drink the cup, Eric,” she said–“pledge me and go.”

Eric drank to the dregs and cast the cup down, and lo! all things changed to him, for his blood was afire, and seas seemed to roll within his brain. Only before him stood Swanhild like a shape of light and glory, and he thought that she sang softly over him, always drawing nearer, and that with her came a scent of flowers like the scent of the Iceland meads in May.

“All oaths are broken, Eric,” she murmured, “all oaths are broken indeed, and now must new oaths be sworn. For cut is thy golden hair, Brighteyes, and not by Gudruda’s hand!”

XX

HOW ERIC WAS NAMED ANEW

Eric dreamed. He dreamed that Gudruda stood by him looking at him with soft, sad eyes, while with her hand she pointed to his hair, and spake.

“Thou hast done ill, Eric,” she seemed to say. “Thou hast done ill to doubt me; and now thou art for ever shamed, for thou hast betrayed Atli, thy friend. Thou hast broken thy oath, and therefore hast thou fallen into this pit; for when Swanhild shore that lock of thine, my watching Spirit passed, leaving thee to Swanhild and thy fate. Now, I tell thee this: that shame shall lead to shame, and many lives shall pay forfeit for thy sin, Eric.”

Eric awoke, thinking that this was indeed an evil dream which he had dreamed. He woke, and lo! by him was Swanhild, Atli’s wife. He looked upon her beauty, and fear and shame crept into his heart, for now he knew that it was no dream, but he was lost indeed. He looked again at Swanhild, and hatred and loathing of her shook him. She had overcome him by her arts; that cup was drugged which he had drunk, and he was mad with grief. Yes, she had played upon his woe like a harper on a harp, and now he was ashamed–now he had betrayed his friend who loved him! Had Whitefire been to his hand at that moment, Eric had surely slain himself. But the great sword was not there, for it hung in Swanhild’s bower. Eric groaned aloud, and Swanhild turned at the sound. But he sprang away and stood over her, cursing her.

“Thou witch!” he cried, “what hast thou done? What didst thou mix in that cup yestre’en? Thou hast brought me to this that I have betrayed Atli, my friend–Atli, thy lord, who left thee in my keeping!”

He seemed so terrible in his woe and rage that Swanhild shrank from him, and, throwing her hair about her face, peeped at him through its meshes as once she had peeped at Asmund.

“It is like a man,” she said, gathering up her courage and her wit; “’tis like a man, having won my love, now to turn upon me and upbraid me. Fie upon thee, Eric! thou hast dealt ill with me to bring me to this.”

Now Eric ceased his raving, and spoke more calmly.

“Well thou knowest the truth, Swanhild,” he said.

“Hearken, Eric,” she answered. “Let this be secret between us. Atli is old, and methinks that not for long shall he bide here in Straumey. Soon he will die; it is upon my mind that he soon will die, and, being childless, his lands and goods pass to me. Then, Eric, thou shalt sit in Atli’s hall, and in all honour shall Atli’s wife become thy bride.”

Eric listened coldly. “I can well believe,” he said, “that thou hast it in mind to slay thy lord, for all evil is in thy heart, Swanhild. Now know this: that if in honour or dishonour my lips touch that fair face of thine again, may the limbs rot from thy trunk, and may I lie a log for ever in the halls of Hela! If ever my eyes of their own will look again upon thy beauty, may I go blind and beg my meat from homestead to homestead! If ever my tongue whisper word of love into thy ears, may dumbness seize it, and may it wither to the root!”

Swanhild heard and sank upon the ground before him, her head bowed almost to her feet.

“Now, Swanhild, fare thee well,” said Eric. “Living or dead, may I never see thy face again!”

She gazed up through her falling hair; her face was wild and white, and her eyes glowed in it as live embers glow in the ashes of burnt wood.

“We are not so easily parted, Eric,” she said. “Not for this came I to witchcraft and to sin. Thou fool! hast thou never heard that, of all the foes a man may have, none is so terrible as the woman he has scorned? Thou shalt learn this lesson, Eric Brighteyes, Thorgrimur’s son: for here we have but the beginning of the tale. For its end, I will write it in runes of blood.”

“Write on,” said Eric. “Thou canst do no worse than thou hast done,” and he passed thence.

For a while Swanhild crouched upon the ground, brooding in silence. Then she rose, and, throwing up her arms, wept aloud.

“Is it for this that I have sold my soul to the Hell-hag?” she cried. “Is it for this that I have become a witch, and sunk so low as I sank last night–to be scorned, to be hated, to be betrayed? Now Eric will go to Atli and tell this tale. Nay, there I will be beforehand with him, and with another story–an ancient wile of women truly, but one that never yet has failed them, nor ever will. And then for vengeance! I will see thee dead, Eric, and dead will I see Gudruda at thy side! Afterwards let darkness come–ay, though the horror rides it! Swift!– I must be swift!”

Eric passed into Swanhild’s bower, and, finding Whitefire, bore it thence. On the table was food. He took it. Then, going to the place where he was wont to sleep, he armed himself, girding his byrnie on his breast and his golden helm upon his head, and taking shield and spear in his hand. Then he passed out. By the men’s door he found some women spreading fish in the sun. Eric greeted them, saying that when the Earl came back, for he was to come on that morning, he would find him on the south-western rocks nigh to where the Gudruda sank. This he begged of them to tell Atli, for he desired speech with him.

The women wondered that Brighteyes should go forth thus and fully armed, but, holding that he had some deed to do, they said nothing.

Eric came to the rocks, and there he sat all day long looking on the sea, and grieving so bitterly that he thought his heart would burst within him. For of all the days of Eric’s life this was the heaviest, except one other only.

But Swanhild, going to her bower, caused Koll the Half-witted to be summoned. To him she spoke long and earnestly, and they made a shameful plot together. Then she bade Koll watch for Atli’s coming and, when he saw the Earl leave his boats, to run to him and say that she would speak with him.

After this Swanhild sent a man across the firth to the stead where Hall of Lithdale sat, bidding him to come to her at speed.

When the afternoon grew towards the evening, Koll, watching, saw the boats of Atli draw to the landing-place. Then he went down, and, going to the Earl, bowed before him:

“What wouldst thou, fellow, and who art thou?” asked Atli.

“I am a man from Iceland; perchance, lord, thou sawest me in Asmund’s hall at Middalhof. I am sent here by the Lady Swanhild to say that she desires speech with thee, and that at once.” Then, seeing Skallagrim, Koll fled back to the house, for he feared Skallagrim.

Now Atli was uneasy in his mind, and, saying nothing, he hurried up to the hall, and through it into Swanhild’s bower.

There she sat on a couch, her eyes red with weeping, and her curling hair unbound.

“What now, Swanhild?” he asked. “Why lookest thou thus?”

“Why look I thus, my lord?” she answered heavily. “Because I have to tell thee that which I cannot find words to fit,” and she ceased.

“Speak on,” he said. “Is aught wrong with Eric?”

Then Swanhild drew near and told him a false tale.

When it was done for a moment or so Atli stood still, and grew white beneath his ruddy skin, white as his beard. Then he staggered back against the wainscoting of the bower.

“Woman, thou liest!” he said. “Never will I believe so vile a thing of Eric Brighteyes, whom I have loved.”

“Would that I could not believe it!” she answered. “Would that I could think it was but an evil dream! But alas! Nay, I will prove it. Suffer that I summon Koll, the Icelander, who was my mother’s thrall–Groa who now is dead, for I have that tidings also. He saw something of this thing, and he will bear me witness.”

“Call the man,” said Atli sternly.

So Koll was summoned, and told his lies with a bold face. He was so well taught, and so closely did his story tally with that of Swanhild, that Atli could find no flaw in it.

“Now I am sure, Swanhild, that thou speakest truth,” said the Earl when Koll had gone. “And now also I have somewhat to say to this Eric. For thee, rest thyself; that which cannot be mended must be borne,” and he went out.

Now, when Skallagrim came to the house he asked for Eric. The women told him that Brighteyes had gone down to the sea, fully armed, in the morning, and had not returned.

“Then there must be fighting toward, and that I am loth to miss,” said Skallagrim, and, axe aloft, he started for the south-western rocks at a run. Skallagrim came to the rocks. There he found Eric, sitting in his harness, looking out across the sea. The evening was wet and windy; the rain beat upon him as he sat, but Eric took no heed.

“What seekest thou, lord?” asked the Baresark.

“Rest,” said Eric, “and I find none.”

“Thou seekest rest helm on head and sword in hand? This is a strange thing, truly!”

“Stranger things have been Skallagrim. Wouldst thou hear a tale?” and he told him all.

“What said I?” asked Skallagrim. “We had fared better in London town. Flying from the dove thou hast found the falcon.”

“I have found the falcon, comrade, and she has pecked out my eyes. Now I would speak with Atli, and then I go hence.”

“Hence go the twain of us, lord. The Earl will be here presently and rough words will fly in this rough weather. Is Whitefire sharp, Brighteyes?”

“Whitefire was sharp enough to shear my hair, Skallagrim; but if Atli would strike let him lay on. Whitefire will not be aloft for him.”

“That we shall see,” said Skallagrim. “At least, if thou art harmed because of this loose quean, my axe will be aloft.”

“Keep thou thine axe in its place,” said Eric, and as he spoke Atli came, and with him many men.

Eric rose and turned to meet the Earl, looking on him with sad eyes. For Atli, his face was as the face of a trapped wolf, for he was mad with rage at the shame that had been put upon him and the ill tale that Swanhild had told of Eric’s dealings with her.

“It seems that the Earl has heard of these tidings,” said Skallagrim.

“Then I shall be spared the telling of them,” answered Eric.

Now they stood face to face; Atli leaned upon his drawn sword, and his wrath was so fierce that for a while he could not speak. At length he found words.

“See ye that man, comrades?” he said, pointing at Eric with the sword. “He has been my guest these many months. He has sat in my hall and eaten of my bread, and I have loved him as a son. And wot ye how he has repaid me? He has put me to the greatest shame, me and my wife the Lady Swanhild, whom I left in his guard–to such shame, indeed, that I cannot speak it.”

“True words, Earl,” said Eric, while folk murmured and handled their swords.

“True, but not all the truth,” growled Skallagrim. “Methinks the Earl has heard a garbled tale.”

“True words, thyself thou sayest it,” went on Atli “thou hound that I saved from the sea! ‘Ran’s gift, Hela’s gift,’ so runs the saw, and now from Ran to Hela thou shalt go, thou mishandler of defenceless women!”

“Here is somewhat of which I know nothing,” said Eric.

“And here is something of which thou shalt know,” answered Atli, and he shook his sword before Eric’s eyes. “Guard thyself!”

“Nay, Earl; thou art old, and I have done the wrong–I may not fight with thee.”

“Art thou a coward also?” said the Earl.

“Some have deemed otherwise,” said Eric, “but it is true that heavy heart makes weak hand. Nevertheless this is my rede. With thee are ten men. Stand thou aside and let them fall on me till I am slain.”

“The odds are too heavy even for thee,” said Skallagrim. “Back to back, lord, as we have stood aforetime, and let us play this game together.”

“Not so,” cried Atli, “this shame is mine, and I have sworn to Swanhild that I will wipe it out in Eric’s blood. Stand thou before me and draw!”

Then Eric drew Whitefire and raised his shield. Atli the Earl rushed at him and smote a great two-handed blow. Eric caught it on his shield and suffered no harm; but he would not smite back.

Atli dropped his point. “Niddering art thou, and coward to the last!” he cried. “See, men, Eric Brighteyes fears to fight. I am not come to this that I will cut down a man who is too faint-hearted to give blow for blow. This is my word: take ye your spear-shafts and push this coward to the shore. Then put him in a boat and drive him hence.”

Now Eric grew red as the red light of sunset, for his manhood might not bear this.

“Take shield,” he said, “and, Earl, on thine own head be thy blood, for none shall live to call Eric niddering and coward.”

Atli laughed in his folly and his rage. He took a shield, and, once more springing on Brighteyes, struck a great blow.

Eric parried, then whirled Whitefire on high and smote–once and once only! Down rushed the bright blade like a star through the night. Sword and shield did Atli lift to catch the blow. Through shield it sheared, and arm that held the shield, through byrnie mail and deep into Earl Atli’s side. He fell prone to earth, while men held their breath, wondering at the greatness of that stroke.

But Eric leaned on Whitefire and looked at the old Earl upon the rock.

“Now, Atli, thou hast had thy way,” he said, “and methinks things are worse than they were before. But I will say this: would that I lay there and thou stoodest to watch me die, for as lief would I have slain my father as thee, Earl Atli. There lies Swanhild’s work!”

Atli gazed upwards into Eric’s sad eyes and, while he gazed so, his rage left him, and of a sudden a light brake upon his mind, as even then the light of the setting sun brake through the driving mist.

“Eric,” he said, “draw near and speak with me ere I am sped. Methinks that I have been beguiled and that thou didst not do this thing that Swanhild said and Koll bore witness to.”

“What did Swanhild say, then, Earl Atli?”

The Earl told him.

“It was to be looked for from her,” said Eric, “though I never thought of it. Now hearken!” and he told him all.

Atli groaned aloud. “I know this now, Eric,” he said: “that thou speakest truth, and once more I have been deceived. Eric, I forgive thee all, for no man may fight against woman’s witchcraft, and witch’s wine. Swanhild is evil to the heart. Yet, Eric, I lay this doom upon thee–I do not lay it of my own will, for I would not harm thee, whom I love, but because of the words that the Norns put in my mouth, for now I am fey in this the hour of my death. Thou hast sinned, and that thou didst sin against thy will shall avail thee nothing, for of thy sin fate shall fashion a handle to the spear which pierces thee. Henceforth thou art accursed. For I tell thee that this wicked woman Swanhild shall drag thee down to death, and worse than death, and with thee those thou lovest. By witchcraft she brought thee to Straumey, by lies she laid me here before thee. Now by hate and might and cruel deeds shall she bring thee to lie more low than I do. For, Eric, thou art bound to her, and thou shalt never loose the bond!”

Atli ceased a while, then spoke again more faintly:

“Hearken, comrades,” he cried; “my strength is well-nigh spent. Ye shall swear four things to me–that ye will give Eric Brighteyes and Skallagrim Lambstail safe passage from Straumey. That ye will tell Swanhild the Fatherless, Groa’s daughter and Atli’s wife, that, at last, I know her for what she is–a murderess, a harlot, a witch and a liar; and that I forgive Eric whom she tricked, but that her I hate and spit upon. That ye will slay Koll the Half-witted, Groa’s thrall, who came hither about two days gone, since by his lies he hath set an edge upon this sword of falsehood. That ye will raise no blood-feud against Eric for this my slaying, for I goaded him to the deed. Do ye swear?”

“We swear,” said the men.

“Then farewell! And to thee farewell, also, Eric Brighteyes! Now take my hand and hold it while I die. Behold! I give thee a new name, and by that name thou shalt be called in story. I name thee /Eric the Unlucky/. Of all tales that are told, thine shall be the greatest. A mighty stroke that was of thine–a mighty stroke! Farewell!”

Then his head fell back upon the rock and Earl Atli died. And as he died the last rays of light went out of the sky.

XXI

HOW HALL OF LITHDALE TOOK TIDINGS TO ICELAND

Now on the same night that Atli died at the hand of Eric, Swanhild spake with Hall of Lithdale, whom she had summoned from the mainland. She bade him do this: take passage in a certain ship that should sail for Iceland on the morrow from the island that is called Westra, and there tell all these tidings of the ill-doings of Eric and of the slaying of Atli by his hand.

“Thou shalt say this,” she went on, “that Eric had been my love for long, but that at length the matter came to the ears of Atli, the Earl. Then, holding this the greatest shame, he went on holmgang with Eric and was slain by him. This shalt thou add to thy tale also, that presently Eric and I will wed, and that Eric shall rule as Earl in Orkneys. Now these tidings must soon come to the ears of Gudruda the Fair, and she will send for thee, and question thee straightly concerning them, and thou shalt tell her the tale as thou toldest it at first. Then thou shalt give Gudruda this packet, which I send her as a gift, saying, that I bade her remember a certain oath which Eric took as to the cutting of his hair. And when she sees that which is within the packet is somewhat stained, tell her that is but the blood of Atli that is upon it, as his blood is upon Eric’s hands. Now remember thou this, Hall, that if thou fail in the errand thy life shall pay forfeit, for presently I will also come to Iceland and hear how thou hast sped.”

Then Swanhild gave him faring-money and gifts of wadmal and gold rings, promising that he should have so much again when she came to Iceland.

Hall said that he would do all these things, and went at once; nor did he fail in his tasks.

Atli being dead, Eric loosed his hand and called to the men to take up his body and bear it to the hall. This they did. Eric stood and watched them till they were lost in the darkness.

“Whither now, lord?” said Skallagrim.

“It matters little,” said Eric. “What is thy counsel?”

“This is my counsel. That we take ship and sail back to the King in London. There we will tell all this tale. It is a far cry from Straumey to London town, and there we shall sit in peace, for the King will think little of the slaying of an Orkney Earl in a brawl about a woman. Mayhap, too, the Lady Elfrida will not set great store by it. Therefore, I say, let us fare back to London.”

“In but one place am I at home, and that is Iceland,” said Eric. “Thither I will go, Skallagrim, though it be but to miss friend from stead and bride from bed. At the least I shall find Ospakar there.”

“Listen, lord!” said Skallagrim. “Was it not my rede that we should bide this winter through in London? Thou wouldst none of it, and what came about? Our ship is sunk, gone are our comrades, thine honour is tarnished, and dead is thy host at thine own hand. Yet I say all is not lost. Let us hence south, and see no more of Swanhild, of Gudruda, of Björn and Ospakar. So shall we break the spell. But if thou goest to Iceland, I am sure of this: that the evil fate which Atli foretold will fall on thee, and the days to come shall be even more unlucky than the days that have been.”

“It may be so,” said Eric. “Methinks, indeed, it will be so. Henceforth I am Eric the Unlucky. I will go back to Iceland and there play out the game. I care little if I live or am slain–I have no more joy in my life. I stand alone, like a fir upon a mountain-top, and every wind from heaven and every storm of hail and snow beats upon my head. But I say to thee, Skallagrim: go thy road, and leave a luckless man to his ill fate. Otherwise it shall be thine also. Good friend hast thou been to me; now let us part and wend south and north. The King will be glad to greet thee yonder in London, Lambstail.”

“But one severing shall we know, lord,” said Skallagrim, “and that shall be sword’s work, nor will it be for long. It is ill to speak such words as these of the parting of lord and thrall. Bethink thee of the oath I swore on Mosfell. Let us go north, since it is thy will: in fifty years it will count for little which way we wended from the Isles.”

So they went together down to the shore, and, finding a boat and men who as yet knew nothing of what had chanced to Atli, they sailed across the firth at the rising of the moon.

Two days afterwards they found a ship at Wick that was bound for Fareys, and sailed in her, Eric buying a passage with the half of a gold ring that the King had given him in London.

Here at Fareys they sat a month or more; but not in the Earl’s hall as when Eric came with honour in the Gudruda, but in a farmer’s stead. For the tale of Eric’s dealings with Atli and Atli’s wife had reached Fareys, and the Earl there had been a friend of Atli’s. Moreover, Eric was now a poor man, having neither ship nor goods, nor friends. Therefore all looked coldly on him, though they wondered at his beauty and his might. Still, they dared not to speak ill or make a mock of him; for, two men having done so, were nearly slain of Skallagrim, who seized the twain by the throat, one in either hand, and dashed their heads together. After that men said little.

They sat there a month, till at length a chapman put in at Fareys, bound for Iceland, and they took passage with him, Eric paying the other half of his gold ring for ship-room. The chapman was not willing to give them place at first, for he, too, had heard the tale; but Skallagrim offered him choice, either to do so or to go on holmgang with him. Then the chapman gave them passage.

Now it is told that when his thralls and house-carles bore the corpse of Atli the Earl to his hall in Straumey, Swanhild met it and wept over it. And when the spokesman among them stood forward and told her those words that Atli had bidden them to say to her, sparing none, she spoke thus:

“My lord was distraught and weak with loss of blood when he spoke thus. The tale I told him was true, and now Eric has added to his sin by shedding the blood of him whom he wronged so sorely.”

And thereafter she spoke so sweetly and with so much gentleness, craft, and wisdom that, though they still doubted them, all men held her words weighty. For Swanhild had this art, that she could make the false sound true in the ears of men and the true sound false.

Still, being mindful of their oath, they hunted for Koll and found him. And when the thrall knew that they would slay him he ran thence screaming. Nor did Swanhild lift a hand to save his life, for she desired that Koll should die, lest he should bear witness against her. Away he ran towards the cliffs, and after him sped Atli’s house- carles, till he came to the great cliffs that edge in the sea. Now they were close upon him and their swords were aloft. Then, sooner than know the kiss of steel, the liar leapt from the cliffs and was crushed, dying miserably on the rocks below. This was the end of Koll the Half-witted, Groa’s thrall.

Swanhild sat in Straumey for a while, and took all Atli’s heritage into her keeping, for he had no male kin; nor did any say her nay. Also she called in the moneys that he had out at interest, and that was a great sum, for Atli was a careful and a wealthy man. Then Swanhild made ready to go to Iceland. Atli had a great dragon of war, and she manned that ship and filled it with stores and all things needful. This done, she set stewards and grieves over the Orkney lands and farms, and, when the Earl was six weeks dead, she sailed for Iceland, giving out that she went thither to set a blood-suit on foot against Eric for the death of Atli, her lord. There she came in safety just as folk rode to the Thing.

Now Hall of Lithdale came to Iceland and told his tale of the doings of Eric and the death of Atli. Oft and loud he told it, and soon people gossiped of it in field and fair and stead. Björn, Asmund’s son, heard this talk and sent for Hall. To him also Hall told the tale.

“Now,” said Björn, “we will go to my sister Gudruda the Fair, and learn how she takes these tidings.”

So they went in to where Gudruda sat spinning in the hall, singing as she span.

“Greeting, Gudruda,” said Björn; “say, hast thou tidings of Eric Brighteyes, thy betrothed?”

“I have no tidings,” said Gudruda.

“Then here is one who brings them.”

Now for the first time Gudruda the Fair saw Hall of Lithdale. Up she sprang. “Thou hast tidings of Eric, Hall? Ah! thou art welcome, for no tidings have come of him for many a month. Speak on,” and she pressed her hand against her heart and leaned towards him.

“My tidings are ill, lady.”

“Is Eric dead? Say not that my love is dead!”

“He is worse than dead,” said Hall. “He is shamed.”

“There thou liest, Hall,” she answered. “Shame and Eric are things apart.”

“Mayst thou think so when thou hast heard my tale, lady,” said Hall, “for I am sad at heart to speak it of one who was my mate.”

“Speak on, I say,” answered Gudruda, in such a voice that Hall shrank