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"This is a sad task for me, Eric!" she sighed, "for how do I know that Baresark's hands shall not loose this helm of thine?" "That is as it may be, sweet," he said; "but I fear not the Baresark or any man. How goes it with Swanhild now?" "I know not. She makes herself sweet to that old Earl and he is fain of her, and that is beyond my sight." "I have seen as much," said Eric.
It falls full on the swordsman's head, and the head is shattered. "That was well done," says Eric as the sword goes down. "Not so ill but it might be worse," growls Skallagrim. Presently all men drew back from those two, for they have had enough of Whitefire and the Baresark's axe. Ospakar sits on his horse, his shield pinned to his shoulder and curses aloud.
Now thou canst only take one counsel, and it is: to give choice to Swanhild of these two things, though it is unworthy that Atli should be deceived, and at the best little good can come of it." "Yet it must be done, for honour is often slain of heavy need," said Asmund. "But we must first swear this Baresark thrall of thine, though little faith lives in Baresark's breast."
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.
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