“Not twice may a man lie in a witch’s bed,” said Eric, “and my troth is plighted to other than thee, Swanhild.”

“She is dead,” says Swanhild.

“Yes, she is dead, Swanhild; and I go to seek her amongst the dead—­I go to seek her and to find her!”

But the face of Swanhild grew fierce as the winter sea.

“Thou hast put me away for the last time, Eric!  Now thou shalt die, as I have promised thee and as I promised Gudruda the Fair!”

“So shall I the more quickly find Gudruda and lose sight of thy evil face, Swanhild the harlot!  Swanhild the murderess!  Swanhild the witch!  For I know this:  thou shalt not escape!—­thy doom draws on also!—­and haunted and accursed shalt thou be for ever!  Fare thee well, Swanhild; we shall meet no more, and the hour comes when thou shalt grieve that thou wast ever born!”

Now Swanhild turned and called to the folk:  “Come, cut down these outlaw rogues and make an end.  Come, cut them down, for night draws on.”

Then once more the men of Gizur closed in upon them.  Eric smote thrice and thrice the blow went home, then he could smite no more, for his strength was spent with toil and wounds, and he sank upon the ground.  For a while Skallagrim stood over him like a she-bear o’er her young and held the mob at bay.  Then Gizur, watching, cast a spear at Eric.  It entered his side through a cleft in his byrnie and pierced him deep.

“I am sped, Skallagrim Lambstail,” cried Eric in a loud voice, and all men drew back to see giant Brighteyes die.  Now his head fell against the rock and his eyes closed.

Then Skallagrim, stooping, drew out the spear and kissed Eric on the forehead.

“Farewell, Eric Brighteyes!” he said.  “Iceland shall never see such another man, and few have died so great a death.  Tarry a while, lord; tarry a while—­I come—­I come!”

Then crying “Eric!  Eric!” the Baresark fit took him, and once more and for the last time Skallagrim rushed screaming upon the foe, and once more they rolled to earth before him.  To and fro he rushed, dealing great blows, and ever as he went they stabbed and cut and thrust at his side and back, for they dared not stand before him, till he bled from a hundred wounds.  Now, having slain three more men, and wounded two others, Skallagrim might no more.  He stood a moment swaying to and fro, then let his axe drop, threw his arms high above him, and with one loud cry of “Eric!” fell as a rock falls—­dead upon the dead.

But Eric was not yet gone.  He opened his eyes and saw the death of Skallagrim and smiled.

“Well ended, Lambstail!” he said in a faint voice.

“Lo!” cried Gizur, “yon outlawed hound still lives!  Now I will do a needful task and make an end of him, and so shall Ospakar’s sword come back to Ospakar’s son.”

“Thou art wondrous brave now that the bear lies dying!” said Swanhild.