Now neither of them knows that Gudruda cut Eric’s locks when he lay sick on Mosfell, though Swanhild knows well that it is not Brighteyes whom she bids Gizur slay.
Then Gizur, Ospakar’s son, lifts the sword, and the faint starlight struggling into the chamber gathers and gleams upon the blade. Thrice he lifts it, and thrice he draws it back. Then with an oath he strikes—and drives it home with all his strength!
From the bed beneath there comes one long sigh and a sound as of limbs trembling against the bed-gear. Then all is still.
“It is done!” he says faintly.
Swanhild puts down her hand once more. Lo! it is wet and warm. Then she bends herself and looks, and behold! the dead eyes of Gudruda glare up into her eyes. She can see them plainly, but none know what she read there. At the least it was something that she loved not, for she reels back against the panelling, then falls upon the floor.
Presently, while Gizur stands as one in a dream, she rises, saying: “I am avenged of the death of Atli. Let us hence!—ah! let us hence swiftly! Give me thy hand, Gizur, for I am faint!”
So Gizur gives her his hand and they pass thence. Presently they stand in the store-room, and there lies Skallagrim, still plunged in his drunken sleep.
“Must I do more murder?” asks Gizur hoarsely.
“Nay,” Swanhild says. “I am sick with blood. Leave the knave.”
They pass out by the casement into the yard and so on till they find their horses.