He stopped, looking at them, made as though to speak, and could not.  Then, while they shrank from him in terror, he turned, and, walking like a drunken man, staggered from the hall down that passage which led to the store-chamber.  The door stood wide, the shutter was wide, and on the floor, soaked in the dregs of ale, Skallagrim yet lay snoring, his axe in one hand and a cup in the other.

Eric looked and understood.

“Awake, drunkard!” he cried, in so terrible a voice that the room shook.  “Awake, and look upon thy work!”

Skallagrim sat up, yawning.

“Forsooth, my head swims,” he said.  “Give me ale, I am thirsty.”

“Never wilt thou look on ale again, Skallagrim, when thou hast seen that which I have to show!” said Eric, in the same dread voice.

Then Skallagrim rose to his feet and gaped upon him.

“What means this, lord?  Is it time to ride? and say! why is thy shirt red with blood?”

“Follow me, drunkard, and look upon thy work!” Eric said again.

Then Skallagrim grew altogether sober, and grasping his axe, followed after Brighteyes, sore afraid of what he might see.

They went down the passage, past the high seat of the hall, till they came to the curtain of the shut bed; and after them followed the women.  Eric seized the curtain in his hand, rent it from its fastenings, and cast it on the ground.  Now the light flowed in and struck upon the bed.  It fell upon the bed, it fell upon Whitefire’s hilt and ran along the blade, it gleamed on a woman’s snowy breast and golden hair, and shone in her staring eyes—­a woman who lay stiff and cold upon the bed, the great sword fixed within her heart!

“Look upon thy work, drunkard!” Eric cried again, while the women who peeped behind sent their long wail of woe echoing down the panelled hall.

“Hearken!” said Eric:  “while thou didst lie wallowing in thy swine’s sleep, foes crept across thy carcase, and this is their handiwork:—­yonder she lies who was my bride!—­now is Gudruda the Fair a death-wife who last night was my bride!  This is thy work, drunkard! and now what meed for thee?”

Skallagrim looked.  Then he spoke in a hoarse slow voice: 

“What meed, lord?  But one—­death!”

Then with one hand he covered his eyes and with the other held out his axe to Eric Brighteyes.

Eric took the axe, and while the women ran thence screaming, he whirled it thrice about his head.  Then he smote down towards the skull of Skallagrim, but as he smote it seemed to him that a voice whispered in his ear:  “Thy oath!”—­and he remembered that he had sworn to slay no more, save for his own life’s sake.

The mighty blow was falling and he might only do this—­loose the axe before it clove Skallagrim in twain.  He loosed and away the great axe flew.  It passed over the head of Skallagrim, and sped like light across the wide hall, till it crashed through the panelling on the further side, and buried itself to the haft in the wall beyond.