“Seest thou that,” said Asmund to Groa, who was at his side, “the Gods build their Bifrost bridge between these two.  Who now shall keep them asunder?”

“Read the portent thus,” she answered:  “they shall be united, but not here.  Yon is a Spirit bridge, and, see:  the waters of Death foam and fall between them!”

Eric, too, saw the omen and it seemed good to him, and all fear left his heart.  Round about him the waters thundered, but amidst their roar he dreamed that he heard a voice calling: 

“Be of good cheer, Eric Brighteyes; for thou shalt live to do mightier deeds than this, and in guerdon thou shalt win Gudruda.”

So he paused no longer, but, shortening up the rope, pulled on it with all his strength, and then leapt out upon the arch of waters.  They struck him and he was dashed out like a stone from a sling; again he fell against them and again was dashed away, so that his girdle burst.  Eric felt it go and clung wildly to the rope and lo! with the inward swing, he fell on Wolf’s Fang, where never a man has stood before and never a man shall stand again.  Eric lay a little while on the rock till his breath came back to him, and he listened to the roar of the waters.  Then, rising on his hands and knees, he crept to its point, for he could scarcely stand because of the trembling of the stone beneath the shock of the fall; and when the people below saw that he was not dead, they raised a great shout, and the sound of their voices came to him through the noise of the waters.

Now, twelve fathoms beneath him was the surface of the pool; but he could not see it because of the wreaths of spray.  Nevertheless, he must leap and that swiftly, for he grew cold.  So of a sudden Eric stood up to his full height, and, with a loud cry and a mighty spring, bounded out from the point of Wolf’s Fang far into the air, beyond the reach of the falling flood, and rushed headlong towards the gulf beneath.  Now all men watching held their breath as his body travelled, and so great is the place and so high the leap that through the mist Eric seemed but as a big white stone hurled down the face of the arching waters.

He was gone, and the watchers rushed down to the foot of the pool, for there, if he rose at all, he must pass to the shallows.  Swanhild could look no more, but sank upon the ground.  The face of Gudruda was set like a stone with doubt and anguish.  Ospakar saw and read the meaning, and he said to himself:  “Now Odin grant that this youngling rise not again! for the maid loves him dearly, and he is too much a man to be lightly swept aside.”

Eric struck the pool.  Down he sank, and down and down—­for the water falling from so far must almost reach the bottom of the pool before it can rise again—­and he with it.  Now he touched the bottom, but very gently, and slowly began to rise, and, as he rose, was carried along by the stream.  But it was long before he could breathe, and it seemed to him that his lungs would burst.  Still, he struggled up, striking great strokes with his legs.