At the first light she rose, and, gliding from the house, walked through the heavy dew down the path by which Eric must draw near, for she desired to speak with him. Gudruda also rose a while after, though she did not know this, and followed on the same path, for she would greet her lover at his coming.
Now three furlongs or more from the stead stood a vetch stack, and Swanhild waited on the further side of this stack. Presently she heard a sound of singing come from behind the shoulder of the fell and of the tramp of a horse’s hoofs. Then she saw the golden wings of Eric’s helm all ablaze with the sunlight as he rode merrily along, and great bitterness laid hold of her that Eric could be of such a joyous mood on the day when she who loved him must be made the wife of another man.
Presently he was before her, and Swanhild stepped from the shadow of the stack and laid her hand upon his horse’s bridle.
“Eric,” she said humbly and with bowed head, “Gudruda sleeps yet. Canst thou, then, find time to hearken to my words?”
He frowned and said: “Methinks, Swanhild, it would be better if thou gavest thy words to him who is thy lord.”
She let the bridle-rein drop from her hands. “I am answered,” she said; “ride on.”
Now pity stirred in Eric’s heart, for Swanhild’s mien was most heavy, and he leaped down from his horse. “Nay,” he said, “speak on, if thou hast anything to tell me.”
“I have this to tell thee, Eric; that now, before we part for ever, I am come to ask thy pardon for my ill-doing—ay, and to wish all joy to thee and thy fair love,” and she sobbed and choked.
“Speak no more of it, Swanhild,” he said, “but let thy good deeds cover up the ill, which are not small; so thou shalt be happy.”
She looked at him strangely, and her face was white with pain.