“Good,” he said; “for a night Eric shall be thine. Then die, and let thy death be his cause of death.” And Odin sang this song:
“Now, corse-choosing Daughters, hearken
To the dread Allfather’s word:
When the gale of spears’ breath gathers
Count not Eric midst the slain,
Till Brighteyen once hath slumbered,
Wedded, at Gudruda’s side—
Then, Maidens, scream your battle call;
Whelmed with foes, let Eric fall!”
And Gudruda awoke, but in her ears the mighty waters still seemed to speak with Odin’s voice, saying:
“Then, Maidens, scream your battle call;
Whelmed with foes, let Eric fall!”
She awoke from that fey sleep, and looked upwards, and lo! before her, with shattered shield and all besmeared with war’s red rain, stood gold-helmed Eric. There he stood, great and beautiful to see, and she looked on him trembling and amazed.
“Is it indeed thou, Eric, or is it yet my dream?” she said.
“I am no dream, surely,” said Eric; “but why lookest thou thus on me, Gudruda?”
She rose slowly. “Methought,” she said, “methought that thou wast dead at the hand of Skallagrim.” And with a great cry she fell into his arms and lay there sobbing.
It was a sweet sight thus to see Gudruda the Fair, her head of gold pillowed on Eric’s war-stained byrnie, her dark eyes afloat with tears of joy; but not so thought Swanhild, watching. She shook in jealous rage, then crept away, and hid herself where she could see no more, lest she should be smitten with madness.
“Whence camest thou? ah! whence camest thou?” said Gudruda. “I thought thee dead, my love; but now I dreamed that I prayed Odin, and he spared thee to me for a little.”