“It is not for me to kill thee, drunkard! Go, die in thy drink!”
“Then I will kill myself!” cried the Baresark, and, rushing across the hall he tore the great axe from its bed.
“Hold!” said Eric; “perhaps there is yet a deed for thee to do. Then thou mayest die, if it pleases thee.”
“Ay,” said Skallagrim coming back, “perchance there is still a deed to do!”
And, flinging down the axe, Skallagrim Lambstail the Baresark fell upon the floor and wept.
But Eric did not weep. Only he drew Whitefire from the heart of Gudruda and looked at it.
“Thou art a strange sword, Whitefire,” he said, “who slayest both friend and foe! Shame on thee, Whitefire! We swore our oath on thee, Whitefire, and thou hast cut its chain! Now I am minded to shatter thee.” And as Eric looked on the great blade, lo! it hummed strangely in answer.
“‘First must thou be the death of some,’ thou sayest? Well, maybe, Whitefire! But never yet didst thou drink so sweet a life as hers who now lies dead, nor ever shalt again.”
Then he sheathed the sword, but neither then nor afterwards did he wipe the blood of Gudruda from its blade.
“Last night a-marrying—to-day a-burying,” said Eric, and he called to the women to bring spades. Then, having clothed himself, he went to the centre of the hall, and, brushing away the sand, broke the hard clay-flooring, dealing great blows on it with an axe. Now Skallagrim, seeing his purpose, came to him and took one of the spades, and together they laboured in silence till they had dug a grave a fathom deep.