“Eric leaping from his bed,” answered the other. “He has slept too long, as we have also.”
As they spoke the curtain of the shut bed was pushed away, and through it staggered Eric in his night-gear, and lo! the left side of it was red. His eyes were wide with horror, his mouth was open, and his face was white as ice.
He stopped, looking at them, made as though to speak, and could not. Then, while they shrank from him in terror, he turned, and, walking like a drunken man, staggered from the hall down that passage which led to the store-chamber. The door stood wide, the shutter was wide, and on the floor, soaked in the dregs of ale, Skallagrim yet lay snoring, his axe in one hand and a cup in the other.
Eric looked and understood.
“Awake, drunkard!” he cried, in so terrible a voice that the room shook. “Awake, and look upon thy work!”
Skallagrim sat up, yawning.
“Forsooth, my head swims,” he said. “Give me ale, I am thirsty.”
“Never wilt thou look on ale again, Skallagrim, when thou hast seen that which I have to show!” said Eric, in the same dread voice.
Then Skallagrim rose to his feet and gaped upon him.
“What means this, lord? Is it time to ride? and say! why is thy shirt red with blood?”