Down among the ballast tumbling
Ospakar’s shield-carles were rolled.
But he should never have slain the steersman. The axe goes first and Skallagrim follows after. Ha, ha! Ay, Swanhild, we’ll mingle tears. Give me the cup. Why, what is this? Thou art afire, a glory glows about thee, and from thee floats a scent like the scent of the Iceland meads in May.”
“Eric! Eric!” cried Gudruda, “I am come to shear thy hair, as thou didst swear that I alone should do.”
“Now I know that thou art Gudruda,” said the crazed man. “Cut, cut; but let not those knaves touch my head, lest I should slay them.”
Then Gudruda drew out her shears, and without more ado shore off Brighteyes’ golden locks. It was no easy task, for they were thick as a horse’s mane, and glued to the wound. Yet when she had cut them, she loosened the hair from the flesh with water which she heated upon the fire. The wound was in a bad state and blue, still Eric never winced while she dragged the hair from it. Then she washed the sore clean, and put sweet ointment on it and covered it with napkins.
This done, she gave Eric broth and he drank. Then, laying her hand upon his head, she looked into his eyes and bade him sleep. And presently he slept—which he had scarcely done for many days—slept like a little child.
Eric slept for a day and a night. But at that same hour of the evening, when he had fallen asleep, Gudruda, watching him by the light of a taper that was set upon a rock, saw him smile in his dreams. Presently he opened his eyes and stared at the fire which glowed in the mouth of the cave, and the great shadows that fell upon the rocks.
“Strange!” she heard him murmur, “it is very strange! but I dreamed I slept, and that Gudruda the Fair leaned over me as I slept. Where, then, is Skallagrim? Perhaps I am dead and that is Hela’s fire,” and he tried to lift himself upon his arm, but fell back from faintness, for he was very weak. Then Gudruda took his hand, and, leaning over him, spoke:
“Hush, Eric!” she said; “that was no dream, for I am here. Thou hast been sick to death, Eric; but now, if thou wilt rest, things shall go well with thee.”
“Thou art here?” said Eric, turning his white face towards her. “Do I still dream, or how comest thou here to Mosfell, Gudruda?”