Now it was supper-time, and people, sitting at meat, saw a great black man, covered with snow and rime, stalk up the hall, and after him another smaller man, who groaned with the cold, and they wondered at the sight. Gudruda sat on the high seat and the firelight beat upon her face.
“Who comes here?” she said.
“One who would speak with thee, lady,” answered Skallagrim.
“Here is Skallagrim the Baresark,” said a man. “He is an outlaw, let us kill him!”
“Ay, it is Skallagrim,” he answered, “and if there is killing to be done, why here’s that which shall do it,” and he drew out his axe and smiled grimly.
Then all held their peace, for they feared the axe of Skallagrim.
“Lady,” he said, “I do not come for slaying or such child’s play, I come to speak a word in thine ear—but first I ask a cup of mead and a morsel of food, for we have spent three days in the snows.”
So they ate and drank. Then Gudruda bade the Baresark draw near and tell her his tale.
“Lady,” said he, “Eric, my lord, lies dying on Mosfell.”
Gudruda turned white as the snow.