“Now we have time to breathe, lord,” he gasps. “See, here is water,” and he takes a pitcher that stands by, and gives Eric to drink from the pool, then drinks himself and pours the rest of the water on Eric’s wound. Then new life comes to them, and they both stand on their feet and win back their breath.
“We have not done so badly!” says Skallagrim, “and we are still a match for one or two. See, they come! Say, where shall we meet them, lord?”
“Here,” quoth Eric; “I cannot stand well upon my legs without the help of the rock. Now I am all unmeet for fight.”
“Yet shall this last stand of thine be sung of!” says Skallagrim.
Now finding none to stay them, the men of Gizur climb one by one upon the rock and win the space that is beyond. Swanhild goes first of all, because she knows well that Eric will not harm her, and after her come Gizur and the others. But many do not come, for they will lift sword no more.
Now Swanhild draws near and looks on Eric and mocks him in the fierceness of her heart and the rage of her wolf-love.
“Now,” she says, “now are Brighteyes dim eyes! What! weepest thou, Eric?”
“Ay, Swanhild,” he answered, “I weep tears of blood for those whom thou hast brought to doom.”
She draws nearer and speaks low to him: “Hearken, Eric. Yield thee! Thou hast done enough for honour, and thou art not smitten to the death of yonder cowardly hound. Yield and I will nurse thee back to health and bear thee hence, and together we will forget our hates and woes.”
“Not twice may a man lie in a witch’s bed,” said Eric, “and my troth is plighted to other than thee, Swanhild.”