“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!”