And with this she walked from the stead, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
“Let the maid be,” said Atli the Earl. “Grief fares best alone. But my heart is sore for Eric. It should go ill with that Baresark if I might get a grip of him.”
“That I will have before summer is gone,” said Asmund, for the death of Eric seemed to him the worst of sorrows.
Gudruda walked far, and, crossing Laxà by the stepping stones, climbed Stonefell till she came to the head of Golden Falls, for, like a stricken thing, she desired to be alone in her grief. But Swanhild saw her and followed, coming on her as she sat watching the water thunder down the mighty cleft. Presently Swanhild’s shadow fell athwart her, and Gudruda looked up.
“What wouldst thou with me, Swanhild?” she asked. “Art thou come to mock my grief?”
“Nay, foster-sister, for then I must mock my own. I come to mix my tears with thine. See, we loved Eric, thou and I, and Eric is dead. Let our hate be buried in his grave, whence neither may draw him back.”
Gudruda looked upon her coldly, for nothing could stir her now.
“Get thee gone,” she said. “Weep thine own tears and leave me to weep mine. Not with thee will I mourn Eric.”
Swanhild frowned and bit her lip. “I will not come to thee with words of peace a second time, my rival,” she said. “Eric is dead, but my hate that was born of Eric’s love for thee lives on and grows, and its flower shall be thy death, Gudruda!”
“Now that Brighteyes is dead, I would fain follow on his path: so, if thou listest, throw the gates wide,” Gudruda answered, and heeded her no more.