They drank horns to Njord and to Frey for peace and fertility. They drank a horn to Brage, with which they pledged solemn vows. Last of all, Atle Jarl rose, always steady on his legs and firm in his voice (he had tasted mead before), blessed the drinking, and proposed a toast in memory of their deceased kinsmen. That toast used not to be very widely observed—by that time many lay under the table. Others had gone outside, and the rows of the feasters grew thinner.
When Ingolf had gone to the temple, Leif's newly found mental equilibrium suddenly forsook him. He was overcome by a feeling of disquiet, strong and not to be shaken off—a fit of impatience which rankled in his breast, and made him perspire and feel unwell. Something must be done, he knew not what, until it suddenly became clear to him that he could not do without Helga any longer. He ran home to the house and got hold of a serf, whom he sent with a message to Ingolf. Then he took a bridle in his hands and a saddle over his shoulders and went off to find his horse. There was a strange feverishness in all his proceedings, but he was cheerful and light of heart, as was always the case when he had overcome uncertainty and betaken himself to action. He found his horse, caught and saddled it, and went straight homewards at full gallop. He dared not think at all, for it was plain to him that it would be too long before he could see Helga, and the thought made his heart sick. A feeling of longing was on him, a longing of the strong kind, which grows in force if one gives way to it. His rapid riding gave him relief, and released him from thinking. He entered into a strange relation with the paths he rode by, and every stone and bush which he passed on the way. A pasture which he went by reminded him of the horse, and he dismounted, took off the saddle and bridle, and lay down. The horse rolled on its back awhile, then rose and began grazing eagerly. This haste seemed to quiet Leif's longing, and he lay comfortably there. He allowed the horse to still its sharpest pangs of hunger, but soon his patience was over, exhausted and vanished. He saddled the horse again and went off at full gallop. Daylight came, and he was forced to stop and let the horse breathe and graze a little. This time Leif could not lie still, while it was grazing. He sat a little, walked a little, and was restless. Long before the proper time he saddled the horse again, but before mounting this time he patted its neck and head, scratched it behind the ear, and spoke kindly to it: "If you hold out, I will remember you as long as we both live!"
So it carried him forward again, over hill and dale, over smooth, grassy plains and stony tracts, over clear streams and roaring rivers. The horse's clattering hoofs awoke in the air alternately falling and rising echoes. So the incredible was accomplished, and the length of the way slowly overcome. One morning at sunrise Leif arrived home. Helga stood outside the house as though she had expected him, and the world seemed new.
"It is you, Leif," said Helga, and did not conceal her gladness. Leif had already sprung from his horse. He ran to her and flung his arms around her. "Helga," he said, and kissed her. "I had to come home all at once." Helga laughed.
"I dreamt of you last night," she said, and kissed him. "That was what I dreamt."
"What?" asked Leif.
"That I kissed you."
And she kissed him again. That was a happy day.