“Perchance!” he said, speaking heavily.
“Eric!—wake, Eric! Thou canst not move? Yet hearken to me—ah! this weight of sleep! Thou lovest me, Eric!—is it not so?”
“Yea,” he answered.
“Now and for ever thou lovest me—and wilt cleave to me always wherever we go?”
“Surely, sweet. Oh, sweet, farewell!” he said, and his voice sounded like the voice of one who speaks across the water.
“Farewell, Eric Brighteyes!—my love—my love, farewell!” she answered very slowly, and together they sank into a sleep that was heavy as death.
Now Gizur, Ospakar’s son, and Swanhild, Atli’s widow, rode fast and hard from Mosfell, giving no rest to their horses, and with them rode that thrall who had showed the secret path to Gizur. They stayed a while on Horse-Head Heights till the moon rose. Now one path led hence to the shore that is against the Westmans, where Gudruda’s ship lay bound. Then Swanhild turned to the thrall. Her beautiful face was fierce and she had said few words all this while, but in her heart raged a fire of hate and jealousy which shone through her blue eyes.
“Listen,” she said to the thrall. “Thou shalt ride hence to the bay where the ship of Gudruda the Fair lies at anchor. Thou knowest where our folk are in hiding. Thou shalt speak thus to them. Before it is dawn they must take boats and board Gudruda’s ship and search her. And, if they find Eric, the outlaw, aboard, they shall slay him, if they may.”
“That will be no easy task,” said the thrall.
“And if they find Gudruda they shall keep her prisoner. But if they find neither the one nor the other, they shall do this: they shall drive the crew ashore, killing as few as may be, and burn the ship.”