“Speak on,” he said. “Is aught wrong with Eric?”
Then Swanhild drew near and told him a false tale.
When it was done for a moment or so Atli stood still, and grew white beneath his ruddy skin, white as his beard. Then he staggered back against the wainscoting of the bower.
“Woman, thou liest!” he said. “Never will I believe so vile a thing of Eric Brighteyes, whom I have loved.”
“Would that I could not believe it!” she answered. “Would that I could think it was but an evil dream! But alas! Nay, I will prove it. Suffer that I summon Koll, the Icelander, who was my mother’s thrall—Groa who now is dead, for I have that tidings also. He saw something of this thing, and he will bear me witness.”
“Call the man,” said Atli sternly.
So Koll was summoned, and told his lies with a bold face. He was so well taught, and so closely did his story tally with that of Swanhild, that Atli could find no flaw in it.
“Now I am sure, Swanhild, that thou speakest truth,” said the Earl when Koll had gone. “And now also I have somewhat to say to this Eric. For thee, rest thyself; that which cannot be mended must be borne,” and he went out.
Now, when Skallagrim came to the house he asked for Eric. The women told him that Brighteyes had gone down to the sea, fully armed, in the morning, and had not returned.
“Then there must be fighting toward, and that I am loth to miss,” said Skallagrim, and, axe aloft, he started for the south-western rocks at a run. Skallagrim came to the rocks. There he found Eric, sitting in his harness, looking out across the sea. The evening was wet and windy; the rain beat upon him as he sat, but Eric took no heed.