And when at evening the breeze freshened to a gale that blew from the land, she cut the cable with her own hand, and the ship leapt forward like a thing alive, and rushed out in the red light of the sunset towards the open sea.

Now ever the gale freshened and folk, standing on Westman Heights, saw the long ship plunge past, dipping her prow beneath the waves and sending the water in a rain of spray over the living Swanhild, over the dead Eric and those he lay upon.

And by the head of Eric Brighteyes, her hair streaming on the wind, stood Swanhild the Witch, clad in her purple cloak, and with rings of gold about her throat and arms.  She stood by Eric’s head, swaying with the rush of the ship, and singing so sweet and wild a song that men grew weak who heard it.

Now, as the people watched, two white swans came down from the clouds and sped on wide wings side by side over the vessel’s mast.

The ship rushed on through the glow of sunset into the gathering night.  On sped the ship, but still Swanhild sung, and still the swans flew over her.

The gale grew fierce, and fiercer yet.  The darkness gathered deep upon the raging sea.

Now that ship was seen no more, and the death-song of Swanhild as she passed to doom was never heard again.

For swans and ship, and Swanhild, and dead Eric and his dead foes, were lost in the wind and the night.

But far out on the sea a great flame of fire leapt up towards the sky.

Now this is the tale of Eric Brighteyes, Thorgrimur’s son; of Gudruda the Fair, Asmund’s daughter; of Swanhild the Fatherless, Atli’s wife, and of Ounound, named Skallagrim Lambstail, the Baresark, Eric’s thrall, all of whom lived and died before Thangbrand, Wilibald’s son, preached the White Christ in Iceland.