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?”