Now Jon, Eric’s thrall, watched all night on Mosfell, but saw nothing except the light of Whitefire as it smote the Baresark’s head from his shoulders. He stayed there till daylight, much afraid; then, making sure that Eric was slain, Jon rode hard and fast for Middalhof, whither he came at evening.
Gudruda was watching by the women’s door. She strained her eyes towards Mosfell to catch the light gleaming on Eric’s golden helm, and presently it gleamed indeed, white not red.
“See,” said Swanhild at her side, “Eric comes!”
“Not Eric, but his thrall,” answered Gudruda, “to tell us that Eric is sped.”
They waited in silence while Jon galloped towards them.
“What news of Brighteyes?” cried Swanhild.
“Little need to ask,” said Gudruda, “look at his face.”
Now Jon told his tale and Gudruda listened, clinging to the door post. But Swanhild cursed him for a coward, so that he shrank before her eyes.
Gudruda turned and walked into the hall and her face was like the face of death. Men saw her, and Asmund asked why she wore so strange a mien. Then Gudruda sang this song:
“Up to Mosfell, battle eager,
Rode helmed Brighteyen to the fray.
Back from Mosfell, battle shunning,
Slunk yon coward thrall I ween.
Now shall maid Gudruda never
Know a husband’s dear embrace;
Widowed is she—sunk in sorrow,
Eric treads Valhalla’s halls!”