“What said the voice of Asmund?” answered Brighteyes. “That death is but the gate of life and love and rest. Hearken, Gudruda, my May! Odin does not reign over all the world, for when I sat out yonder in England, a certain holy man taught me of another God—a God who loves not slaughter, a God who died that men might live for ever in peace with those they love.”
“How is this God named, Eric?”
“They name Him the White Christ, and there are many who cling to Him.”
“Would that I knew this Christ, Eric. I am weary of death and blood and evil deeds, such as are pleasing to our Gods. Oh, Eric, if I am taken from thee, swear this to me: that thou wilt slay no more, save for thy life’s sake only.”
“I swear that, sweet,” he made answer. “For I too am weary of death and blood, and desire peace most of all things. The world is sad, and sad have been our days. Yet it is well to have lived, for through many heavy days we have wandered to this happy night.”
“Yea, Eric, it is well to have lived; though I think that death draws on. Now this is my counsel: that we rise, and that thou dost put on thy harness and summon Skallagrim, so that, if evil comes, thou mayst meet it armed. Surely I thought I heard a sound—yonder in the hall!”
“There is little use in that,” said Eric, “for things will befall as they are fated. We may do nothing of our own will, I am sure of this, and it is no good to struggle with the Norns. Yet I will rise.”
So he kissed her, and made ready to leave the bed, when suddenly, as he lingered, a great heaviness seized him.
“Gudruda,” he said, “I am pressed down with sleep.”
“That I am also, Eric,” she said. “My eyes shut of themselves and I can scarcely stir my limbs. Ah, Eric, we are fey indeed, and this is—death that comes!”