“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.”