“I am glad to see the blessed light,” said the first woman, “for last night I dreamed that once again this hall ran red with blood, as at the marriage-feast of Ospakar.”
“Ah,” answered the other, “it will be well for the south when Eric Brighteyes and Gudruda are gone over sea, for their loves have brought much bloodshed upon the land.”
“Well, indeed!” sighed the first. “Had Asmund the Priest never found Groa, Ran’s gift, singing by the sea, Valhalla had not been so full to-day. Mindest thou the day he brought her here?”
“I remember it well,” she answered, “though I was but a girl at the time. Still, when I saw those dark eyes of hers—just such eyes as Swanhild’s!—I knew her for a witch, as all Finn women are. It is an evil world: my husband is dead by the sword; dead are both my sons, fighting for Eric; dead is Unna, Thorod’s daughter; Asmund, my lord, is dead, and dead is Björn; and now Gudruda the Fair, whom I have rocked to sleep, leaves us to go over sea. I may not go with her, for my daughter’s sake; yet I almost wish that I too were dead.”
“That will come soon enough,” said the other, who was young and fair.
Now the witch-sleep began to roll from Eric’s heart, though his eyes were not yet open. But the talk of the women echoed in his ears, and the words “dead!” “dead!” “dead!” fell heavily on his slumbering sense. At length he opened his eyes, only to shut them again, because of a bright gleam of light that ran up and down something at his side. Heavily he wondered what this might be, that shone so keen and bright—that shone like a naked sword.
Now he looked again. Yes, it was a sword which stood by him upon the bed, and the golden hilt was like the hilt of Whitefire. He lifted up his hand to touch it, thinking that he dreamed. Lo! his hand and arm were red!
Then he remembered, and the thought of Gudruda flashed through his heart. He sat up, gazing down into the shadow at his side.
Presently the women at the fire heard a sound as of a great man falling to earth.
“What is that noise?” said one.