Now Jon, Eric’s thrall, watched all night on Mosfell, but saw nothing except the light of Whitefire as it smote the Baresark’s head from his shoulders.  He stayed there till daylight, much afraid; then, making sure that Eric was slain, Jon rode hard and fast for Middalhof, whither he came at evening.

Gudruda was watching by the women’s door.  She strained her eyes towards Mosfell to catch the light gleaming on Eric’s golden helm, and presently it gleamed indeed, white not red.

“See,” said Swanhild at her side, “Eric comes!”

“Not Eric, but his thrall,” answered Gudruda, “to tell us that Eric is sped.”

They waited in silence while Jon galloped towards them.

“What news of Brighteyes?” cried Swanhild.

“Little need to ask,” said Gudruda, “look at his face.”

Now Jon told his tale and Gudruda listened, clinging to the door post.  But Swanhild cursed him for a coward, so that he shrank before her eyes.

Gudruda turned and walked into the hall and her face was like the face of death.  Men saw her, and Asmund asked why she wore so strange a mien.  Then Gudruda sang this song: 

     “Up to Mosfell, battle eager,
     Rode helmed Brighteyen to the fray. 
     Back from Mosfell, battle shunning. 
     Slunk yon coward thrall I ween. 
     Now shall maid Gudruda never
     Know a husband’s dear embrace;
     Widowed is she—­sunk in sorrow,
     Eric treads Valhalla’s halls!”

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 Laxa 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!”