But Asmund stood looking after her. “Truly,” he said in his heart, “ill deeds are arrows that pierce him who shot them. I have sowed evilly, and now I reap the harvest. What means she with her talk of Gudruda and the rest?”
Now as he thought, he saw men and horses draw near, and one man, whose helm gleamed in the moonlight, bore something in his arms.
“Who passes?” he called.
“Eric Brighteyes, Skallagrim Lambstail, and Gudruda, Asmund’s daughter,” answered a voice; “who art thou?”
Then Asmund the Priest sprang forward, most glad at heart, for he never thought to see Eric again.
“Welcome, and thrice welcome art thou, Eric,” he cried; “for, know, we deemed thee dead.”
“I have lately gone near to death, lord,” said Eric, for he knew the voice; “but I am hale and whole, though somewhat weary.”
“What has come to pass, then?” asked Asmund, “and why holdest thou Gudruda in thy arms? Is the maid dead?”
“Nay, she does but swoon. See, even now she stirs,” and as he spake Gudruda awoke, shuddering, and with a little cry threw her arms about the neck of Eric.
He set her down and comforted her, then once more turned to Asmund: