“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.