“Eric’s hair,” said Hall, “that Swanhild cut from his head with Eric’s sword.”
Now Gudruda put her hand to her bosom. She drew out a satchel, and from the satchel a lock of yellow hair. Side by side she placed the locks, looking first at one and then at the other.
“This is Eric’s hair in sooth,” she said—“Eric’s hair that he swore none but I should cut! Eric’s hair that Swanhild shore with Whitefire from Eric’s head—Whitefire whereon we plighted troth! Say now, whose blood is this that stains the hair of Eric?”
“It is Atli’s blood, whom Eric first dishonoured and then slew with his own hand,” answered Hall.
Now there burned a fire on the hearth, for the day was cold. Gudruda the Fair stood over the fire and with either hand she let the two locks of Eric’s hair fall upon the embers. Slowly they twisted up and burned. She watched them burn, then she threw up her hands and with a great cry fled from the hall.
Björn and Hall of Lithdale looked on each other.
“Thou hadst best go hence!” said Björn; “and of this I warn thee, Hall, though I hold thy tidings good, that, if thou hast spoken one false word, that will be thy death. For then it would be better for thee to face all the wolves in Iceland than to stand before Eric in his rage.”
Again Hall bethought himself of the axe of Skallagrim, and he went out heavily.
That day a messenger came from Gudruda to Björn, saying that she would speak with him. He went to where she sat alone upon her bed. Her face was white as death, and her dark eyes glowed.
“Eric has dealt badly with thee, sister, to bring thee to this sorrow,” said Björn.